In Darkest Night
by SayahYagashi
Summary: Post-TDK. The dawn has arrived. But what will this new day bring? When new monsters and old demons rise to threaten the very existence of Gotham...so will its fallen.
1. Prologue: The End

**'In Darkest Night'**

.

**Summary: **Post-TDK. The dawn has arrived. But what will this new day bring? When new monsters and old demons rise to threaten the very existence of Gotham...so will its fallen.

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing but this story. Everything else belongs to the Demi-God Nolan, praises!

**A/N: **Slightest changing of minor events and dates. Read on! (And review!)

* * *

_They'd all fallen._

_Harvey Dent fell._

_He lost his ideals and honor and brought down everything he'd ever stood for. He destroyed many lives, and not all of them were those he killed. He became the villain._

_Rachel Dawes fell._

_She made the wrong decisions. She was weak, swayed by her own inability to accept the truth and selfish, for she could never see past her own sacrifices._

_James Gordon fell._

_He allowed people to die on his watch and couldn't protect his family from his enemies. He let an innocent man, a savior take the blame of a corrupt man and lied to the world._

_Even the Joker fell. But that was just gravity._

_._

The Batman didn't fall. But he lost everything else.

* * *

**Prologue~ The End**

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Laughter.

Crazed, taunting, maniacal laughter rang out through her fogged senses, sending shivers up her spine, along with a new bout of terror.

_Could there be something worse than what she'd just endured?_

The unyielding darkness parted to reveal a single point of light, sliding across the serrated surface of a bloodied knife as it came closer and closer to her, blocking her entire vision, until she could see nothing else but her own terror reflected in the deadly metal.

His breath felt warm on her neck as he moved closer, panting, one hand just barely caressing a collar bone. A clock started ticking somewhere. _Was it all happening in her head?_

Then the deadly voice began hissing poisonous words.

_I am going to…_

They said that they were going to…

…_let your friends choose…_

Let our friends choose…

_And only he…_

…I know, Harvey…

…_can decide which of you gets to live…_

…but I don't…

…_and which of you is going to…_

…want them to…

…_die…_

_Hahaha Hahaha! Hehehe Hehehe! Hoo-ha! Hoo-ha!_

Crazed, taunting, maniacal laughter rang out through the warehouse, as the clock ticked on.

The explosion was so vast that Anna Ramirez, across the street, was thrown momentarily off balance as four floor worth of concrete, bricks and mortar came crashing down in a single instant and the sky was lit up by brilliant fireworks. Some three miles to the north, a similar display could be seen almost at the same time.

_How could something so glorious be part of something as horrifying as a murder?_ She thought hopelessly as her eyes guiltily reflected the flames licking up into the night.

_Death at the hands of a laughing demon._

_Fireworks to celebrate a tragedy._

Irony sure had a way.

_And I am responsible for this._

Uncovering her ears, Ramirez squinted at the dust swirling all around her, hiding the charred remains of the building, her brows furrowing in confusion.

'_Where the hell did he go?'_She shouted in growing panic.

* * *

The harsh sound of the sirens was getting louder now, as she felt herself be carried gently from the heat that scorched her skin.

_What was happening?_

_Hadn't she died yet?_

She definitely remembered the explosion.

_Where was she going?_

Rachel Dawes had been an independent and inquisitive woman in her life. Now even in death, she could feel a little of her inner strength return as she desperately tried to understand what was happening around her. The blazing inferno raged on in front of her, but she was no longer part of it, as she watched it silently, all the while being carried further and further away from her grave. Turning her head to look behind her, she could see a host of cop cars and an ambulance pull up recklessly and people running towards them, but all of it appeared oddly unreal and perplexingly blurry to her, as if seen through the wrong end of a telescope.

Complete silence enveloped her, shielding her from the madness abound and a strange calm filled her mind, numbing all her senses so that all her pain receded until it was a single throbbing pulse somewhere deep in her head. If only she could sleep…

'_Get the medics!'_

The words, shouted by the man carrying her, seemed almost irrelevant to her, funny in fact, as she watched it all contently. She knew she was going to pass out soon…_now that would be nice…_

_I don't need medics._ She tried to tell her savior._I am fine. I just need to see –_

A swell of emotion rose up inside her, bringing her back to searing reality. The press conference. The lie. The chase. The Joker, _the_ Joker, the _Joker_ and…

_Harvey!_

'Harvey…' She gasped, the sensation of hearing returning to her as she heard her feeble voice over the now blaring sirens and harried commands being barked about. Clutching at the man carrying her, she whispered again, 'Where's…_Harvey?'_

She felt the man stiffen beneath her hold, and a thousand answers sprang to her lips, all worse than the other. Why wouldn't he answer her? What could be so bad that he kept quiet?

_Please, let him be alright. Oh God, please–_

'Harvey's…alive.' The man replied soothingly as he set her down on a stretcher. Hearing his voice Rachel lifted herself up an inch. Looking back at his face, pale with trepidation, she felt tears forming at the corner of her eyes as she let go of him, seeking his exhausted hazel eyes. _Tell me the truth._

A sad smile tugged at his lips as he momentarily grabbed her hand and said earnestly, 'Harvey's alive. And so are _you,_ Rachel.'

Rachel didn't know when she had started crying. Tears rolled down her face, leaving murky trials in the soot and blood. Closing her eyes, she settled back on the stretcher as the last of her strength ebbed away.

'Thank you, Jim.' She managed to rasp out before darkness closed in. There was no need to worry. Everything was going to be all right now.

It was all going to be all right.

And _now_ she could die peacefully.


	2. A Long Night

**A Long Night**

.

**8:46 P.M.,**

**MCU Headquarters,**

**Gotham City**

.

'It's going to rain tonight.'

Glancing at the unmoving figure of the Commissioner or what little she could see of it from the back of his chair, Montoya realized it was time to go. Getting to her feet, she crossed the newly re-furnished office, pausing at the doorway uncertainly, worry laced in her tired eyes, 'Jim, will you be allri–?'

'I'm fine, thanks.' He answered quickly, firmly, emotionlessly; without a hint of fatigue or anything else but resigned reserve, as he gazed down upon the city through his window.

_His_ city.

'Oh, alright. We'll be waiting for you, upstairs…whenever you're ready.' She said and then hesitated, one hand combing through her short hair nervously, then decided for the better and closed the door softly leaving a sense of stark emptiness in the room, while its only occupant stared unmoving at the world.

Millions of people passed below, unaware, uninterested, of anything but their own lives and their own worlds, but James Gordon sat still. In a world of dynamic movement, he rested, if only for a little while, and watched the time pass, his silence not a testimony to his mood, but his inability to do what needed to be done, his graveness and anger, not a facade but there for all the different reasons.

With a slow sigh, Gordon slumped down in his chair, the strains of the past week starting to appear on his prematurely lined face. He shouldn't be so hard on them, he knew, they were just doing their jobs.

If only his job had been that easy…

Millions of lives passed below and millions of moments passed by, but James Gordon didn't have the energy to get up anymore.

* * *

When Gordon had time to sit back and unwind, he had realized that there had been little hints and traces all along.

But like the rest of Gotham, he had, ironically, been as_ blind _as a_ bat._ It was almost as ironic as the fact that his eyes had finally been opened by a schizophrenic mass murderer who dressed like a clown.

The resurgence of the lost heir to the Wayne legacy occurring within days of the masked vigilante coming to enlist his help had not even registered in his mind.

The Batman had himself recommended Rachel Dawes for handling the Falcone case. So when Gordon had mentioned that it would be a good idea to let Rachel Dawes in on their plans, as not many people were convinced about Batman's impartiality and system of justice and she had already proven to be a friend and a confidant, he was more than a little surprised when Batman had been completely against the notion.

_No more civilians_, he'd said firmly, _it could endanger our secret._ At that time, Gordon couldn't speculate what was amiss but he never brought up the topic again.

When the mob dealers had to be brought down to earth and their little accountant was to be captured, Gordon was reluctant to let Harvey Dent join their team and he had made no secret of that fact in front of Batman or even Dent himself. But Batman had voiced his strong opinions in favor of Dent and Gordon assumed it was only natural once he had seen Dent's extreme stand against the mob and corruption. Though, he _was_ a little surprised when he heard that Bruce Wayne was throwing Dent a fundraiser. He had never known Mr. Wayne to be interested in politics or the working of the city machinery. He doubted whether the playboy could distinguish between a prosecutor and a defense attorney.

The disappearance of the Prince of Gotham with the entire Russian Ballet troupe reached Gordon's ears purely by mistake. It was front page news. Of course he didn't link it to the Dark Knight appearing in Hong Kong at the same time and bringing back Lau for them, which incidentally had been squashed somewhere between local and sports on page six.

It was a mere coincidence.

Bruce Wayne's little crash saved Coleman Reece's life.

Lucky accident.

There couldn't have been any other explanations, could there?

Jim often wondered how it would feel to see the Batman take off his mask in front of him someday. _Would it turn out to be someone he knew? Someone he'd worked with, perhaps? A good friend? Or a complete stranger?_ Sometimes he didn't want to know. Knowing the man inside the armor would make him more real, more human, much more vulnerable. And Gordon knew he would never be able to forgive himself if he willingly accepted help from a man, however powerful, if it meant putting the man into harm's way.

So he liked to think of the Batman as invincible, unbreakable, someone he could depend on, even though he understood that even the Batman had his limits. He didn't think he'd ever get to know them though. He hoped he'd never have to.

Then that fateful night happened.

The night, the Joker revealed his diabolic plan. A plan that included not only the White Knight of Gotham, but also the love of his life, and Gordon saw a transformation come about in Batman the likes of which he had never seen before.

A year ago, when Rachel had nearly died after being poisoned by Dr. Crane, Gordon could see that the Batman was more than just a little troubled. The true extent of his feelings was revealed soon after when he had led a spectacular car chase across Gotham. _Quite a-damaging of the public property just to save a single life,_ Gordon had mused to himself and then forgotten about it in the aftermath.

But what he had seen in the interrogation room surpassed everything else. Joker, it seemed, had somehow managed to find out the Dark Knight's one weakness and used it against him.

Jim Gordon was stunned into silence.

The idea was so peculiar, so outlandish, that he hadn't believed it for a moment. But Batman's next reaction only proved the Joker's words true.

Gordon cursed himself for doubting.

_How could he have forgotten that Batman was only human? How could he have overlooked the fact that behind the mask, there was a face as well? That beneath the cape and armor, there was a person, a man, capable of human emotions?_

In front of him, Batman slowly unraveled, losing control, as he treaded dangerously close to the line. This new Batman didn't care that Gordon's entire unit was watching them; he didn't care that he might actually kill the Joker in his fury. A single mention of _her_ had been enough to break his cold exterior and iron resolve. And Gordon had gotten a glimpse of the man behind the armor.

Even before the question was out if his mouth, Gordon knew the answer.

'_Which one are you going aft–?'_

'_Rachel!'_

The single word was spoken without a trace of hesitation, with a sense of anguish so deep that Gordon knew in that instant, all his doubts dispelled once and for all, that Batman could and would go to any lengths to save Rachel Dawes.

Later that night, Gordon had heard that the Dark Knight had kept a silent vigil in the wrecks of the place she'd been lost, until the dawn had arrived. And it was then that he began piecing the little details together. Seeing things in a totally different light.

The appearance of Wayne and the Batman in Gotham at the same time and the billionaire's unaccounted absence when the Batman was out of the country.

The idea that the Batman was or backed by someone rolling, living and breathing money, for as far as Gordon knew, being a family man and all, fancy tanks didn't come in cheap.

The fundraiser, the car crash; not coincidences, but signs he should have understood, not accidents but clues he should have picked up.

And finally the last piece of the puzzle. No, the first _and_ the last link.

Her.

Harvey Dent was clearly not the Batman. And Gordon didn't even have to look to know that the only family the Assistant DA ever had apart from her mother, were the Waynes. He had himself been there when Thomas Wayne had brought in a battered and frightened Mrs. Dawes and her newly born daughter to identify the body of her husband, who had been caught in crossfire between the cops and a particularly vicious gang. A few years later, Gordon knew, the Waynes had even offered a position to Mrs. Dawes after she had been forced to move out of her home when her mother passed away.

The realization that he had finally uncovered Batman's identity, all the while reclining in his new chair in his new office, less than two days after he'd been promoted to Commissioner, had been a bittersweet realization.

Gordon had had his own share of harsh truths, but _this,_ this was beyond him.

It was a truth that nobody would believe, because it was simple too absurd to be true, yet all the evidence pointed towards it. He wondered if anyone else had figured it out yet, it was so surreal. Bizarre.

_Bruce Wayne was the Batman._

Gordon had never met the Wayne heir socially. They didn't exactly move in the same circles. Spoiled playboy billionaire, cream of the crop, leader of the pack of the rich and the influential, careless wealthy brat, infamous womanizer, famous party animal were few descriptions that came to the mind when one talked about Bruce Wayne. Caped crusader, masked vigilante, the dark knight were some, that certainly did not.

Bruce Wayne had been so good in his act; he'd the whole world fooled.

Everything had been a lie.

It was so…_ironic._

_Batman was Bruce Wayne._

Jim wondered what he _should_ believe now, when the distinctions between right and wrong and real and fake had been blurred to such an extent. He couldn't bear the thought of confronting Batman with the knowledge. No, it would be _his_ secret; something he'd take to the grave with himself, a possibility which loomed nearer than ever now that he'd been given the _big_ job.

He had always felt sorry for the Batman, forced to fight night after night, without any consideration for himself. More than once Gordon had seen him take a hit that would send any other man to the hospital for weeks at the least. But Batman would be back the next night, jumping off roof tops, busting drug deals as if nothing had happened.

Till now, Jim had always managed to push it to the back of his mind, for his own peace of mind. _He probably has a good home where he can relax during the day and people who understand him, a family who stands behind him as he goes out every night to make their city a better place to live,_Gordon used to tell himself, even though he knew it wasn't very likely.

Most fairy tales never were.

But now he felt even worse, especially after he'd seen how far the dark knight could go to save their city, their worlds. Now he knew the truth; that there was no family, no blissful sleep and no relief. A masked vigilante by night, a spoilt billionaire by day and a consistently partying rich brat by the evenings, the man had no respite, no one to wait for his return (_just an old butler? Manservant?_) and as darkness fell, he would be forced to don the mask again, no matter what, no matter how much he'd lost or how badly he'd been hurt.

Which made the news he was going to give him tonight even more painful. He marveled at how much the Dark Knight could hold on to his sanity; _he _sure as hell was losing his mind over the past few days.

Tonight, Gordon was going to give the man behind the mask a little hope.

But hope dashed to pieces, could as easily destroy a soul as despair.

The Joker _had_ chosen the best of them, and it was not Harvey Dent.

It was one day after the Joker had been caught and two days after Harvey Dent and Rachel Dawes had been lost to his madness_._

Gordon stretched back and got up from his chair, massaging his forehead. One advantage of being a Commissioner was that he had his own coffee machine. He might as well grab a cup or two. He was surely going to need it for what he was about to do, what he was supposed to do.

It was going to be a long night.

* * *

**9:02 P.M.,**

**MCU Rooftop,**

**Gotham City**

.

Swinging back the axe with all his might, newly promoted Commissioner Gordon brought it crashing down on the glass, shattering what had once been a beacon of hope for Gotham into numerous pieces, throwing them all into darkness.

Pulling back his shoulders, Gordon appeared calm and in control of everything, yet to those who knew him, all the light had gone out from his eyes, and there was a strange blankness to his expression as if he didn't trust himself to open up to others. The officers looked at him expectantly.

He knew he had to this, make a speech, and say a few words of encouragement, even though he had already debriefed them two hours ago and three floors under. And _that_ had been bad enough.

Unclenching his teeth, Gordon inhaled deeply.

'From now on, the Batman is no longer our ally.' Gordon said. 'He is a murderer and an outlaw and _must_ be brought down! For Gotham!' He could not go on.

Nevertheless, a cheer rose up from the surrounding men and women, but to him, it felt macabre, morbid, not unlike the jeering of crowds in unholy glee as a man is brought to the hangman's noose.

_How fickle is the mind of the mob, how quickly do they change sides,_ he wondered sourly. Gotham had welcomed the Dark Knight with open arms, before casting him out like a leper.

Just like _he'd_ said.

For a moment, Gordon felt light-headed as the enormity of their actions, _his_ actions crashed onto him. He wondered what the others would say if he threw up in right then and there. Be something for the papers alright.

'Jim.' A steadying hand was placed on his shoulder. Montoya.

Behind her Stephens looked on gravely, reassuring him that he was not fooled and would stand by his side no matter what. Also, without turning around, Gordon could make out Ramirez's sharp profile against the flickering light, her face in darkness, as she looked on him with true concern.

Rare friends in times of great need.

Gordon felt the bile rising in his throat. He had to get away.

Nodding to them, he moved away from the others without speaking. He couldn't deal with it. Not now. Not tonight.

Not that he _had_ anything to say to Ramirez anyway.

Slowly, the terrace of the MCU emptied out, people murmuring condolences as they passed, some of them sincere, understanding the pain it was causing him just to be there, others, assuring him that they'd nail the bastard before he could murder someone else.

It had started to rain by the time the last man had left. Taking off his glasses, Gordon stuffed them into his coat as the downpour thickened, before turning around in expectantly. Jim had had a very good inkling that he'd be here, watching everything he'd done for Gotham come crashing down in an instant.

He was not disappointed.

Lightening illuminated the dark figure standing behind him for a flash before he was swallowed up in the shadows, though his silhouette remained visible as rainwater slid off the dark armor.

'You shouldn't have come.' Gordon said emotionlessly, even though he thanked gods known and unknown for sending the man. He needed to meet him, give him the news…_before it all began_; the hunts, the chases and all the madness. He put on his glasses again.

'Don't tell me you are still here for the weather.' The low growl was more forced than useful but Gordon felt a wave of relief spread through him as he heard him. Turning around, unable to hide his worry, he asked, 'How are you?' Only yesterday, the man had been beaten by thugs, attacked by dogs, shot, fallen from a four-floor building and been hunted down by the police. _And_ been involved in a car crash, Gordon thought wryly. Well, if Bruce Wayne thought he could pull of a masquerade that easily, then he was seriously wrong. Gordon believed in the goodness in people; he wasn't naive or stupid.

'I'm fine.' Batman said gruffly.

'Good.' Gordon nodded after a moment, not knowing what else to do. He tried to think of something to say, to provide some meaning, some reason for what had happened but the enormity of it all defeated him. He thought it was funny how two people could suddenly run out of conversation.

Not that the Dark Knight had ever been a stickler for words anyway.

'How's –your family.' The caped crusader asked abruptly, sounding somehow, more human.

Looking up, surprised, Gordon answered, 'They're…okay. Babs' okay, Jimmy hasn't said much and Barbara…well, you know how wives can be…' He trailed off into the night. _Of course he didn't know, he had never been married,_ Gordon smacked himself mentally. He would really have to watch his mouth, now that he…knew.

An awkward silence stretched between them, broken only by the constant drumming of the rain on the MCU roof. Gordon wondered if any of the cops a level below them were suspecting anything. Stephens maybe, Ramirez for sure.

Anna Ramirez…

The traitor…_no,_ _don't think about that. You'll have to deal with that later._ Gordon shook his head slightly as if to clear his thoughts. He took off his glasses again, trying to wipe them clean in the incessant rain.

'I'll contact you again in a few days,' Batman said, his voice businesslike again, jerking him out of his reverie. Gordon frowned as he realized that he was speaking again.

'…to work out an arrangement.

The commissioner nodded absentmindedly. He really had to concentrate on the present, instead of getting caught up in the past. Four nights without sleep could do that to him.

Raising his head, he saw that the man was still there. For a moment, Gordon wished he'd gone, and spared him the unpleasant task he had to do. But the Batman was still there, for all that he could see in the darkness and pouring rain, looking at him intently with a questioning gaze.

'I've got to tell you something.' Gordon said finally, putting his glasses back on, knowing it would be better to get it over with as soon as possible. 'Something I got to know only a few hours ago. Something you should know before the press at least.'

'What is it?' The Batman asked.

Gordon hesitated, even though he knew there was no going back. Not with the Batman. And considering what the man had done for him, he owed him this much at least.

'She's alive.' He said somberly. Thunder roared across the dome of the sky, drowning out the woes of the world but Jim Gordon heard the sharp intake of breath; saw the stirring of the shadow._'What?'_

'Rachel,' he repeated wearily, knowing that things would never be the same, 'she's alive.'

* * *

**10:01 P.M.**

**Bruce Wayne's penthouse,**

**Gotham City**

.

Alfred switched on the late night news to the screaming headline:

.

**ASSISTANT DA FOUND ALIVE!**

An immaculately made up blonde dominated most of the screen, standing in front of what Alfred immediately recognized as the ruins of the warehouse that stood on 250 52nd street. A tag under her, blared VICKI VALE, GOTHAM GAZETTE, almost as vividly as the headline.

The woman spoke slowly and forcefully, her perfect brows drawn in to indicate her graveness, but the effect was quite ruined by her nervous excitement.

'-staggering discovery following the whirlwind of pandemonium that had gripped Gotham City during the Joker's anarchic reign, Assistant District Attorney, Rachel Dawes, who had been declared dead only a day before yesterday, as a victim of a bomb incident, was found to be heavily injured, had sustained several major burns and fractures but nevertheless _very much alive._ Ms. Dawes was rushed to the Affinity Hospital, following her narrow escape from the bomb scene, where she was pronounced dead on arrival as was _confirmed by_ the _newly_ promoted, Commissioner James Gordon.

However, a conflicting medical report that has surfaced today and been verified by unnamed Affinity personnel show that though Ms. Dawes is in a critical condition, she has not _yet_ succumbed to her extensive injuries as was established by the Gotham City Police Department only a day before yesterday. Commissioner Gordon has _failed_ to comment on the incident so far, maintaining his usual stony silence, though several _inside sources_ have revealed that this was, _supposedly,_ a plot to protect the victim from an attack by the Joker.

Even if this is true, then the GCPD have failed to mention why such a tactic wasn't considered in the case of Gotham's own White Knight, the late District Attorney, Harvey Dent, whose rescue was widely publicized even though the GCPD failed here as well, as it was actually the notorious masked vigilante, _the Batman_, who was responsible for saving Harvey Dent.

Whatever the truth might actually be, the GCPD's carelessness and their actions sure raises many questions in the minds of Gotham's ordinary citizens concerning their ability or in this case, the _lack of it_, to protect the city and it's people–'

The butler switched off the television, one hand wiping away the lone tear. Staring through the thick glass walls, his eyes unfocused with past memories, Alfred sighed softly.

It was going to be a long night.


	3. A Peaceful Interlude

**A Peaceful Interlude**

.

_Darkness._

Calm, undisturbed, unwavering darkness.

And then… _awareness._

Sharp, cold, sudden.

She was–

* * *

'Doctor, Doctor!'

'I'm coming! Out of the way, please!'

'Hurry, Doctor! The woman!'

'What?'

'She…she's–_'_

* * *

–_wonderfully, clinically, breathlessly–_

'Alive.'

* * *

People moved in and out of her vision, but as Rachel lay there on the morgue table, it felt as if the entire world had gone very silent. She could hear nothing, nothing at all...which didn't matter anyway, because Harvey was alive.

Gordon had said so himself. And if Rachel knew anything about Gordon, it was that he never lied. Gordon was reliable. He was trustworthy. He could be counted upon to set things right. He was…good.

Only one of the few.

Harvey was alive; though probably not in a very good shape, but alive nevertheless. He would be waiting for her when she came back. He would be the first person she'd see after she'd open her eyes, after the smug doctors and the patronizing nurses anyway. And when she _would_ see him, Rachel decided, she would not hold anything back. No anger, no frustration, no sorrow. She would pour out her soul to the man, yell at him, shake him to his core, probably even slap him once or twice, just to show him how reckless and foolish his plan had really been.

You just _can't_ leave your life to chance. The Joker had just proved that to her.

Everything was going to be alright. Harvey was alive. The mob would be brought down. The Joker had been caught. The madness stops here. Gotham was safe once more.

And yet, she felt nothing; no pain, no sadness, no joy.

Pure oblivion.

_Is this what heaven is like?_

She wondered.

_Or hell?_

Difficult questions.

_Does it matter?_

She decided she would like to reserve her judgment for now. She wasn't dead, was she?

Rachel wanted to go back to sleep, but her mind refused to. The people fretting around her were also distracting. _Chaos _that was what they were creating, _mayhem._

_Just, let me be._ She thought wearily. _Let me sleep._

But they wouldn't. And she couldn't.

Something was…_missing._

Something very important. Something she should have remembered.

Frowning she tried to recall what it was.

Something…_someone?_

Should she try to dredge it up? Or let it pass? Allow time to heal her wounds and her memory?

She couldn't make up her mind. _Choices, choices…_

Lights blazed over her and she was no longer peaceful. The table she was laying upon no longer felt comfortable, but hard and cold. She was faintly aware how difficult it was for her to breathe. Her lungs burnt, but hadn't she just survived a bomb blast? Dull, throbbing pain returned, followed by a deep sense of unrest and disquiet as distant voices became discernible, growing louder every minute and insignificant figures crowded above her, people with faces without eyes…_or were they faceless eyes?_

The lights hanging above her were unforgiving, merciless; they blinded her and no matter how tightly she clenched her eyes shut, she could no longer drift away from the reality. Words seemed to emerge out of the haze she was in, as meaningless as the people who were shouting them.

'_Bloody miracle!'_

'Call the–'

'Transfer her to the–'

Groaning, Rachel tried to block out the rest of the world. But silence, would no longer provide her refuge. Darkness, it seemed was no longer her ally.

For the first time since she'd died, she felt…_inexplicably_…afraid.

* * *

_Fear reigned in Gotham._

_Criminals walked the streets like rats in the gutter. The neighborhood where once hard-working, honest people lived were now empty, the streets rutted, the buildings boarded up. After nightfall, only people who controlled fear dared to stray out, to terrorize the weak and entertain the powerful._

_The city was rotting. And like an apple, its pestilence had spread all around, affecting anything and everything. Corruption, lawlessness, injustice were its causes, crime, its effect._

_They said there was no hope for the city; that it was beyond saving. They called it the city of decay, the city of death, the city of darkness._

_But out of the darkness…came a silent guardian…_

… _a watchful protector…_

…_a Dark Knight_

_The Batman._

_But he was also…_

Bruce.

She remembered him now.


	4. Changed Persepectives

**Changed Perspectives**

.

**10:12 A.M.**

**Affinity Hospital,**

**Gotham City**

.

For a moment, the stillness of the room was broken as a window opened to reveal the storm raging outside, the wind tearing away at the blinds, before it was closed.

A bolt of lightening illuminated the sterile white-walled room for an instant, revealing the battered body of a woman on the hospital bed, covered in numerous lacerations and contusions. Tubes and pipes ran the length of her body, and bandages covered every inch of her skin that had been spared by the fire. Plaster casts supported her where bones had been shattered.

The figure crept towards the bed, slowly, tentatively, as if not daring to believe his eyes. Crouching down beside her, he allowed himself to take her in his sight; the wounds, the burns, everything.

It was a miracle.

Reaching out with a shaking hand, the Dark Knight touched the woman's face softly, as if to make sure she was alive. To make sure she was real.

He exhaled softly.

A nurse walking by the heavily guarded room of Rachel Dawes, peeped in to check if everything was alright or not, only to see a dark form kneeling beside the bed, his head bowed as if in reverence, one hand gently clasping the patient's fingers.

As if sensing her presence, the man raised his head and looked straight at her and all her thoughts of calling the cops standing further down the corridor vanished from her mind as she was instantly rooted to the spot.

There was nothing she could do.

Nothing at all.

She was…

_Nothing._

His eyes were like twin pools filled with an enigmatic obsession, glowing in the dim room as he stared at her. Wave upon wave of his emotions crashed into her as she stood there like puppet caught on strings. She couldn't bear to look into his eyes and she couldn't bear to turn away.

She knew who he was, everyone did.

After what seemed like an eternity, she turned around and walked away unhurriedly, greeting out to the officers as she passed them, her hands clenched together to stop them from shaking uncontrollably. Nothing wrong, she mouthed to them, lips stretched back into a fake smile that did not reach her eyes.

_She mustn't stop, mustn't look back._

It was only later, when she had returned home, slid against the doorway, trembling; she realized that there was nothing else she could have done, nothing to diminish the pain of the man she'd seen, the man known as the Batman to the world.

As her pet cat slipped into her lap demandingly, she understood that it had been grief and utter desperation that she had witnessed in the room that night.

* * *

**1:49 A.M.**

**Bruce Wayne's Penthouse,**

**Gotham City**

**.**

Alfred looked up at the noise as the Dark Knight appeared in the hidden doorway, the armor and cape still on, the mask slipping from his fingers as he walked on unseeingly.

'Rachel...' He whispered before staggering forward.

Hurrying forward as quickly as his old age would allow, Alfred assisted him into an armchair, his sense of duty and responsibility overriding all other emotions.

'...alive. She's _alive.'_

There was a wild desperation in his voice, mingled with joy, incredulity and disbelief. Running a hand through his disheveled hair, Bruce Wayne allowed all his masks to fall away, one by one. No longer the caped crusader or the billionaire playboy, the man inside finally appeared, tired and dazed.

Broken.

Once he had made sure he hadn't been bludgeoned, shot, bitten, stabbed, poisoned or harmed in any other way, Alfred allowed himself a doubt.

'And yet you sound, almost…guilty, Master Wayne.' The old butler commented dryly, seeing the tormented expression. 'Surely, this is a time of happiness and reconciliation.' Behind him, the skyline of Gotham glittered like a necklace of stars, twinkling at them mischievously in the heavy rain.

Raising his tortured gaze, Bruce looked at him, 'You didn't see her, Alfred. You didn't see what they did to her. _Those murdering bastards nearly killed her! _And _I_was the one who brought this upon her._'_ He whispered, his eyes unfocused, as if remembering some dreaded nightmare. 'I did.'

Alfred's mouth pulled into a hard line; for a moment, Alfred was sitting beside the eight year old boy again.

'Master Wayne,' Alfred said firmly, grasping Bruce's arm as much as to reassure himself as him, 'Ms. Dawes is one of the bravest people I have ever known in my life. Simply hurting her bodily could and would never break her spirit.

Just as the Batman cannot be destroyed by simply killing him, Ms. Dawes cannot be crushed until her ideals and principles, the ones she shares with the Batman, are broken.' Alfred stated understandingly, his resolve hardening with each word. He could not let the hope falter, as much as for his own sake as the Dark Knight's.

'Alfred –'

'Brave are those who die for what they believe in, Master Wayne,' The old man interrupted before Bruce could go on, 'but it takes real courage to live and suffer for your beliefs. Rachel has just been given another chance to prove that. A chance very few get.'

The young man buried his face in his hands, his shoulders slumping in exhaustion, or grief, it was hard to tell.

Alfred struggled not to console him; his master rarely revealed such weakness, _had not,_ since his parents' death. By choosing to ignore his distress, Alfred was respecting Bruce's vulnerability, something, which he suspected, Bruce was not fully aware of yet. Only yesterday he thought he'd seen the Dark Knight at his worst; bruised, beaten, nearly destroyed in the aftermath of all that had happened. But tonight, he felt something different; something which he had perhaps realized unconsciously a long time back.

He teetered, on that treacherous faint line separating him from being a loyal butler from something more. For Bruce's own good, he tried to find words to make him realize the truth, but intuition and restrain of years of experience held him back. Something told him it wasn't the right moment; that he wouldn't believe him, wouldn't understand.

Finally Bruce looked up, the rigid contours of his face crumbling; as if no longer able to hold the storm of anguish brewing beneath.

No, Alfred decided firmly, he would keep his peace tonight. There would always be another day, another chance. He knew there was nothing he could do now. The dark knight would have to face his own demons alone.

Like he always did.

'This city is dying, Alfred.' Bruce whispered staring into space, 'I never meant it to turn out like this. I was meant to inspire good. Not death, not destruction. This…_madness,_ I can't control it.'

'Master Wayne,' stated Alfred, 'only yesterday, you put one of the greatest threat to Gotham behind bars. Things _have_ changed today, but the crusade for this city is far from over. You have to continue –'

'How can I protect Gotham from falling into chaos, when I can't even protect those that matter the most to me?'

Alfred was silent for a moment, staring into the fatigued eyes of his employer; eyes that had seen too much in too little time, endured, what no man should ever go through. The eyes of a haunted soul and a hunted man.

'You can't Master Wayne, you can't control everything' Alfred said curtly, trying not to sound as concerned as he was, 'not at least, unless you realize that sometimes, you just have to let it go before you regain it. That at times, you have to move with the flow. Trust humanity to do the right thing, for humans, have a strength in them that cannot be measured. Just like Gotham showed everyone, that there are still people who are ready to believe in good.'

Bruce looked pale in the artificial light, pre-mature lines marring his otherwise handsome face.

'Let go? I _let_ things get out of hand with the Joker; I did exactly as he expected me to do. I have no justification, no excuse. I failed there, Alfred. I failed her and failed Gotham! And failed to protect Gotham's one chance and because of me, he is _dead!'_ his voice had risen to a shout and without realizing what he was doing, Bruce swung vehemently, catching the side-table on the edge. The delicate structure swung across the floor and burst against the far wall, shattering a life-size vase.

Alfred strained hard not to flinch.

Carefully arranged long-stemmed roses scattered on the floor, and water spread around rapidly, darkening the plush carpet. A few stray rose buds floated and settled down on the widening puddle, contrasting sharply against the white floor and walls, as if mocking the old man with their boldness.

In the ringing silence Bruce got up and turned away.

'Batman…no longer inspires hope, Alfred.' He whispered with finality, looking back at the butler, resignation in his voice.

Grimly, Alfred said, 'You are no more his murderer than anyone else, Master Wayne. Harvey Dent died because he stopped believing in the inherent goodness of humanity. He died believing that Rachel was dead, that she had become just another victim to quench the insatiable madness of a terrorist. He brought down everything he had ever worked for in a fit of rage. In short, Master Wayne, he gave up. _That_ is the difference between you and him. He succumbed to revenge, where you had risen up from your own pain to become a symbol of hope for Gotham.'

'But Harvey is an image of justice and truth today, even if he died in vain. His work, his words, everything he stood for–'

'All his good deeds will be remembered because of _you.'_Alfred pressed on, trying to make him understand, 'And that is why you can't lose hope now, because that which you thought was lost is lost no more. Let Harvey's fall not become the mistake it was. Even in death, he inspires Gotham, just like Batman once did. To continue what they stood for, what you stand for, _that_ is the reason to keep on fighting.' Alfred finished. Somewhere along the line, he felt he had needed to say aloud the truth for his own sake as much as Bruce's, to reassure himself that he was not caught up in some bizarre nightmare but a chilling reality however surreal. The past week had gone by in a haze, a crescendo of overwhelming happenings that had blurred the lines between normality and nightmares.

The fallen hero stood up from the chair and wandered to the Plexiglas window. Rain washed down in buckets, creating beautiful patterns on the glass, through which the city appeared oddly distorted, colors, lights and darkness merging together to appear like a single, living, breathing entity. The being didn't care how much blood had been split for her, how many lives wasted for her salvation, how many deaths branded out for her name.

_This_ was Gotham.

Sighing, Bruce pressed his forehead on the glass, the coolness soothing his fevered turmoil.

'What is there left for me to believe?' Alfred had to strain to listen; his voice had gone so low. 'If Harvey can go down, then so can I, one day. What makes me better than him? He took the fall for me, and I took the fall for him, even though both turned out to be mistakes.'

Getting up, the butler looked at the billionaire's silhouette, contrasted sharply against the backdrop of the city's nightlife, a part and yet so apart from everything that happened in Gotham, 'One day, you might fall. And on that day, I would ask you, why is it that we fall, Master Wayne?'

Bruce's face softened slightly, eyes lighted up a little. 'So that we might better learn to pick ourselves.' He replied, remembering the old advice. 'Never gave up on me, did you?'

'Never once, in the bloody mess you've dragged me into.' Alfred replied under his breath.

Bruce closed his eyes with finality. The silence between them stretched comfortably into minutes, borne out of years of familiarity and experience, echoing what had been said and left unsaid. Outside, the night was changing, a stormy grey replacing the inky blackness.

The rain was slowing down as well, as if it had exhausted all its ferocity and vehemence. A new day was beginning.

Alfred thought that his employer might have fallen asleep if he'd not been standing, because there were some things even the Dark Knight couldn't do, and as long as Alfred recalled correctly, the most unusual way his master had ever fallen asleep had been when he'd started nodding into the shoulder of his date during a movie premiere, who'd considered it a gesture of his undeniable love for her, until of course he fell into her popcorn.

'How come you have all the answers to life, Alfred?' Bruce asked abruptly, breaking his chain of thoughts.

'Oh, that I don't, Master Wayne.' The old butler replied promptly, some of his zeal returning.

'You don't?' Bruce asked quizzically, turning around, the ghost of a smile visible on his face.

His face completely straight, Alfred said, 'No, Master Wayne. I don't. I'm not particularly worried about it anyway and neither should you be.'

'Why is that?'

'Because sometimes, life gives no answers, sometimes there are no solutions to the problem.'

'You mean, sometimes, life's a bitch.' Bruce replied, the corner of his mouth twitching.

'Precisely.' Alfred allowed himself a smile. 'And in such situations, Master Wayne, you just have to change the way you look at things.'

'What do you mean?'

'Well, let's see. What would you say you foresee in Gotham's future?'

For a moment Bruce Wayne seemed surprised at the question. 'Well, now that Harvey's dead, and the police are hunting the Batman, it's going to be tougher than usual to fight but…' He said looking troubled.

'Yes?' Alfred asked encouragingly.

'But that psychopathic maniac is gone, at least for the time being. Gordon has more power than ever and…and despite everything…_Rachel is alive_…so; there _is_ still some hope for Gotham. Yes, that's right. Gotham _has_ a chance to revive itself.'

'And?'

'And I would do anything in my power to stop it from falling apart...like _he_ wanted.' For a moment, a look of pure hatred crossed Bruce's features but it vanished soon enough, leaving behind a peace of understanding on the Dark Knight's face.

'Congratulations Master Wayne.' Alfred said, turning to prepare his employer's bed, lest he fall asleep in the armchair again.

'What for?'

'Mr. Joker just lost the battle for your soul.'


	5. Unfulfilled Slumber Part 1

**Unfulfilled Slumber**

**Part 1**

.

**6:59 A.M.**

**Bruce Wayne's Penthouse,**

**Gotham City**

.

'How did you know?'

It was early morning, a couple of hours later; the first rays of the sun crept into the penthouse, as Gotham awoke to a crystal clear day, its streets and buildings washed of their grime by the nightly shower.

Bruce Wayne got up from the armchair, where he'd fallen asleep despite Alfred's protests. Now as he stretched up, he could feel his spent body scream in protest. Alfred's smile, as he entered carrying the breakfast tray, was all-too familiar.

_I told you so,_ Bruce could almost hear him say.

Sunlight shone through the glass window, blinding the old butler for a second. Alfred hated mornings in the penthouse; when the sun glowered and everything glistened like polished silver, creating a dazzling effect that unsettled him. He preferred the quaint beautiful mornings of Wayne Manor. With its diffused lighting, imported dark stone and hand-cut glass, there was a something that lent a mysterious and medieval quality to the air. Alfred wondered how the construction work was going on. He'd been left quite out of the loop when his employer had been putting heads together with the builders. Supposedly, it was to be a big surprise for him. He mentally snorted.

Sometimes he wished his ward didn't have to be so bloody stubborn.

'Know what, Master Wayne?' The butler asked, walking to his side.

'About Rachel, you didn't appear surprised last night when I told you…that she wasn't…' Bruce replied sluggishly, suppressing a yawn, still groggy from the sleep, and rubbed his eyes.

Placing the tray precariously on the table beside him, Alfred handed him the unopened morning paper and said with the faintest hint of sarcasm in his voice, 'You really don't watch _or_read a whole lot of news, do you?'

A scowl, reminiscent of his alter ego, appeared on Bruce Wayne's face as bending forwards, he unfolded the paper.

'Gordon said that he hadn't broken it to the press yet.' He growled.

'I'm sure, the Commissioner had his reasons.' Alfred replied soothingly, placing a glass of juice in his hand, wishing he had left the newspaper outside. That was all he needed; getting Bruce riled up again, this early in the morning.

'Well, at least he should have told me.' The Wayne heir frowned, before helping himself with the breakfast. Somewhere inside the house, a grandfather clock chimed seven times.

'Will you be going to work today, sir? I could call in Mr. Fox.' Alfred said, knowing that he would stop sulking soon enough and become normal. Incidentally, how _normal_ could a man be if he dressed up as a flying rodent and jumped off buildings?

'Of course, I –_have you read this stuff?'_ Bruce said, choking on a piece of toast. Laying down his fork, the billionaire began to scan the paper more carefully, eyes narrowing dangerously as he read more. Peering over his shoulder, Alfred read the headlines he had missed.

**Commissioner Gordon's 'Back from the Dead' heist not only allowed the Joker to literally blow apart…**_**(Pg 4)**_

**Behind the Blue Façade: Vicki Vale explores the murky circumstances surrounding the death of the one man who stood against corruption and the GCPD's silent role in…**_**(Pg 14, 19 & 20)**_

'I must say, Ms. Vale has quite an imagination,' Alfred commented dryly, reading the reporter's name.

Nodding absentmindedly, Bruce read on, his brow furrowed.

Sighing, Alfred straightened up, gazing balefully at the breakfast tray which lay forgotten on the newly replaced side-table that he had had brought from Italy twenty minutes ago.

* * *

**7:45 A.M.**

**Somewhere below East End,**

**Gotham City**

.

Nothing changed when the woman opened her eyes.

Spitting out the blood in her mouth, she wiped her lips as her eyes got used to the murky darkness surrounding her. A low curved ceiling arched over her and running her hands along the filth-covered walls, she realized that she was in a long tunnel that ran straight to her left and curved sharply out of sight to her right. Water rushed left.

Taking the left hand path, the dark-haired, dark-eyed woman trudged through the ankle deep sludge, fighting back her last meal as unimaginably disgusting odors assaulted her senses. Luckily, she was unharmed and carried nothing else than the clothes she wore, so she was able to move quickly, passing almost noiselessly through the water, as her mind worked furiously to discern what had happened.

Thoughts and words whirled around in her head, as she tried to understand where her plan had gone wrong, when she had been betrayed, but her over-exhausted brain refused to co-operate, replaying only the same scene over and over again.

_A dark parasite, chugging towards the heart of the demon._

_A bright light on the dark ride, cut off before it could reach its destination by the cloud of darkness, a spawn of the demon._

_The parasite was destroyed. The demon lived through the night._

_The night of true Fear__._

Choking back her grief, the woman halted in her tracks, as unbidden memories came rushing by.

_Calm down. You need to focus. You can still do this._

As years of discipline and training reinforced themselves over her with an iron-fist, just like the man who had helped develop them, the woman felt her heart beats slowing down and the visions receding. Her lips automatically began moving in an inaudible chant, resting her senses until nothing but a single picture, of a lone turquoise flower, growing at the edge of a tall snowy precipice, was all she could see, the familiar cold biting wind was all she could feel, the undisturbed silence found only at the top of the world, was all she could hear.

Taking a deep breath, she began moving forwards, hands stretched out on both sides, ears pricked for any disturbance, mind ready to deal with anything she might encounter in her path.

Hours passed and the tunnel continued, unchanged and unbroken.

The woman stopped to rest, she knew she had to preserve her energy if she needed to make it out of there. From her last estimation, she guessed it was somewhere around twelve hours since she'd woken up, which put her at least two days behind their original plan. She started moving again.

After travestying over a few hundred yards, the woman stopped again suddenly, as her keen ears picked up a single high note, almost inaudible over the gurgling water.

Lengthening her strides as the water began rising, the woman ran through the tunnel, even as the sharp whistle began increasing in volume. The darkness was receding; a faint light could now be seen as a single point at the end of a tunnel.

Slowing down, as the pressure of water behind her began destroying her sure footing; the woman inched ahead, stooping forwards to balance herself. The point of light grew and so did the roar of the flowing water and the high whistling, and along with it, the woman's trepidation.

Coming to a halt before the open mouth of the tunnel, the woman looked down; the dirty water fell through the air, hundreds of feet below, into the polluted Gotham River. Unfazed, the woman clenched something inside her robes and gathering all her strength hurled it out into the air.

For a brief moment, a burst of bright white light illuminated the tunnel, blinding her into shielding her eyes but the next instant it was gone, receding until there was only the faint light of the cold sun. The whistling stopped abruptly.

Thirty seconds and many frantic heart beats later, a narrow ladder descended down from the roof of the tunnel. Relief spread through her as the woman caught hold of the lowest rung and pulled herself up.

Emerging out into the open, she blinked back tears as the harsh sunlight invaded her eyes. Warm wind hit her face and the sky opened up above her. She breathed in clean air for the first time in more than two days.

The woman turned to look at her helper, the diminutive, slit-eyed figure, hiding the true strength of the man who was standing respectfully at a distance, his head lowered, his eyes firmly on his feet.

'Vanguard.' She whispered vaguely to herself, rolling the word around her tongue.

'Welcome, Mistress' the man said quietly, bowing low, 'I was afraid we had been betrayed.'

Hearing her own language after such a long time instantly lifted her mood and the woman said, 'Rise servant, you have done well. Yes, we had been betrayed.'

Dark querying eyes met her own for a second before they dropped back in reserved reverence.

'But they've been taken care of.' She replied in response to his unasked question. 'The fight weakened us though, surprisingly, and we were unable to get here on the destined time. We daresay you've been here for two days?' She asked, tilting her head slightly to one side.

'It is of no consequence.' The man replied without any expression, 'If it is your wish, we could rest at a safe place not far from here before starting the journey.'

Looking around her from their vantage point on top of one of the many tunnel heads jutting out from the rock face, the woman took in the sight of the city in the distance, its silver towers sparkling in the morning.

Only a few leagues of water separated her from her destination. The demon city. The city of death and decay.

Looking up behind her, she saw the barest hint of the grim grey colored fortress where the city's 'unwanted' were caged. A cruel fate, even for the sinners, she mused.

'Let's go,' she said, not turning around as strands of lose hair blew around her face, 'I can sleep in the submarine.'


	6. Under the Unlit Sky

**Under the Unlit Sky**

.

**12:37 A.M.**

**Warehouse 12, Dock b-4**

**Gotham City**

.

'Gordon.'

Turning around, Gordon had a moment to raise his hand before an object came flying out of the darkness. Catching it awkwardly, he turned to look around.

He thought he'd be used to this kind of thing by now. Apparently not; his heart was still thudding loudly at the shock of finding himself from being alone to not so alone any more all in a matter of seconds. Once again, the Dark Knight had managed to scare the top cop with his unobtrusive entrance.

And at his age, nobody could really tell.

Gordon was standing on the rooftop of an old dilapidated warehouse, which incidentally was the very one where the Batman had once strapped Carmine Falcone to a harbor light. He thought it would be fitting to meet at the place where the Bat-Light (since when had he started calling it _that?_) had first shone above Gotham, like a silent reminder of hope, and a warning to all those who sinned.

Tonight, clouds covered the sky, throwing the city into murky darkness, which even the brightest light could not penetrate.

Unable to discern anything more than the faintest outline of the vigilante in the darkness, Jim turned to the object in his hand, examining it with interest. Silver and ultra-thin, the device resembled a mobile phone, though there was no logo, serial or model number of any kind on it.

'What is it?' He asked curiously, without looking up, knowing he would get an answer.

'It's a communicator.' The figure growled from the shadows.

'A…_cell phone?_ I'm horrible with these things.' He muttered under his breath, his heart sinking, glaring at the device, remembering how he had to take the help of Anna every time he had to send a message; he just _couldn't_ tune into the touch-screen concept and the damned stylus kept on disappearing all the time. In the end, he'd gone and replaced his new cell phone, which had been a gift from his wife as an unsaid reminder for him to call home more often, with an older set, one which thankfully, had nice and large buttons. Stephens had laughed himself silly, murmuring something about 'being from the dino age', but Gordon would rather have function over fashion any day.

'…not quite.' The voice from the shadows said, sounding –_bemused?_ Gordon pushed away the thought wryly.

Flipping the communicator open, the Commissioner was not surprised to discover that there were only two buttons under a large blank LCD screen. Sensing his touch, the screen hummed into existence, revealing a list of options.

_Better start getting used to it,_ he thought glumly. 'What are these for?' Gordon sighed resignedly. As he skimmed over the tabs, they further divided to form a complex labyrinth of options and applications that he was sure he'd never be able to understand.

'Nothing,' the Batman said, and when Gordon expressed his disbelief, added, 'All of this is just to ward off any suspicion. All the contacts are fake and dialing any of them would only lead to voice mail. The applications have no use. It's only the buttons that are important.'

Looking considerably happy, Gordon asked, 'Really? Good. Though pretty direct, huh? No more messing around with numbers.' He commented wryly, looking sideways at the caped crusader. As usual, he could detect no hint of any emotion on the vigilante's face.

'I thought we'd better keep it simple.' The masked vigilante said gruffly.

'It's better that way.' The commissioner smiled jadedly. 'So, how does it work?' he queried turning it over.

'That one will directly connect you to me.' He said, indicating at the first button.

_Good,_ thought Gordon pleased; he was no longer as young as he used to be and trampling all over town and climbing steep staircases was sure as hell wasn't_his_ idea of spending his nights. Now he just had to make sure he didn't pick up the wrong phone every time Barbara called. That would be embarrassing; 'hey Babs, sorry hon can't come ho –oh, hi Batman.'

'That shouldn't be too difficult.' He muttered, weighing the device in his hand expertly like a jeweler. _Got to be a catch somewhere,_ Gordon thought suspiciously. You couldn't become a cop without questioning everything and everyone.

'And the second one?' he asked his voice neutral yet questioning.

For some reason, the Batman was staying further back in the shadows than he normally did. Gordon had to strain to hear his next words, 'That is for emergencies only. In case that I get lethally injured or killed–'

'_What?'_Jim was sure he wasn't hearing right.

'…in case I die or sustain fatal injuries and am unable to so, I want _you_ to be the one to contact my associate and inform him to take the necessary steps regarding the matter…'

A putrid smell rose up from the water below them, before it was carried away by the winds. The faint murmur of the river washing along its banks could be heard above the general noise of the city. Once upon the time, the pier had been a serene picnic spot for families, now only the homeless and penniless roamed the docks.

'You really think that's necessary?' Gordon asked him, breaking the tense silence. He couldn't bring himself to think about Gotham without its guardian knight, much less bring himself to prepare for it, and even though he knew the Batman was right, he felt infuriated for some reason.

'We have to consider all options.' The darkness replied emotionlessly.

'None so drastic I hope.' Jim muttered tight lipped.

'It has happened before. There is every possibility it will happen again.' Batman paused as if considering, then added, 'Even more so now.'

Gordon's hand shook as he grasped the communicator tightly; _even more so now, that I am being blamed for Two-Face's killings._

He threw the device back at the caped crusader. 'It might be easy for you to stand there talking about your death so casually, but don't expect me to be the same. For the past three days, you've been nearly apprehended by the police. _Twice!'_Gordon tried not to sound too agitated but failed miserably, his glasses threatening to slip. 'What do you make of that?'

'…your men are getting better?'

Deciding to ignore the rare and obvious attempt at humor, Gordon said curtly, 'What do you think you're playing at? Gotham can take care of itself for a while. You _need_ to lay down for the time being. That's what's going to prevent you from getting killed.' _Didn't the man understand? Had the fall really addled his brains?_

'I can't do that. The mob would start gathering their strength…'

'The mob's gone…all their money, their respect; it's all in the dust now. They won't be a problem for some months.'

'I still have to –' Batman began warily but Gordon interrupted him.

'No, you don't! Don't you realize? You've given Gotham hope again. The city is getting back up again. And people all over are rolling up their sleeves to help. We _will_be all right. It's you I'm concerned about. You just can't throw away your life so carelessly.'

Gordon took off his glasses, before wiping it and putting it back again. He felt the beginning of a headache. And he had left his pills in the office. _Again._

But then, he hadn't been planning to get into a pissing match with the caped crusader when he'd called him here. So much for a peaceful night.

'…I'm sorry I can't help you with that.' The Batman replied gruffly, unmoved. 'Even though the Joker is gone, we can't let our guards down. There's always a chance someone…worse might rise to take his place.'

For whatever his worth, Gordon knew that the Batman was telling the truth, even if he couldn't bring himself to imagine someone worse than the psychopathic clown. He just wished he could share the man's enthusiasm.

'Take the communicator. We can't jeopardize this partnership. For Gotham.' The Batman said, coming out of the shadows and offering it back, repeating the very words the commissioner had said. There was weariness in his voice, telling of countless sleepless nights, something which Gordon was reasonably familiar with himself. What he wasn't familiar with, was the pain it was causing the man to say what he was saying. The commissioner felt a hitch in his throat. The weight of the world was too much to be borne by a single pair of shoulders.

_Or even two._

Sighing to himself, Gordon said, 'Fine. I'll take it.' At least they could _try._

'Keep it safe. Do not let anyone see it. And keep it with yourself all the time.' The masked vigilante said gruffly. 'Even at home.'

'Don't teach me my job.' Gordon said sharply, the pressures of the week finally getting to him. He glared backed into the shadows willing the man to answer him back, but the figure behind the mask remained impassive, unrelenting.

'Well, then at least allow me to apologize.' The police commissioner said, his voice losing all determination. He knew he had begun treading on dangerous grounds.

'For what?'

Gordon recalled the last time they'd met on the roof of the MCU, when the Batman had taken off the moment he'd told him the truth about Rachel. It was the first time Gordon had _actually_ seen him go. No doubt, Affinity Hospital had received a strange visitor that night.

'When we met, couple of days ago...' He began tentatively.

'It doesn't matter.' The Dark Knight replied brusquely, before he could go on, 'There's no reason to think about what might or might not have happened that night.'

_Oh, but there is_ _a reason, isn't it?_

'It's still our…_my fault_. I'm so–'

The Batman cut him off, coalescing from the shadows. 'I never blamed you, Commissioner.'

'Let me explain, _please.'_There was frustration in the older man's voice, frustration and guilt. For a moment, he thought that the Batman might refuse to hear his side of the story, but the caped crusader hadn't left, not yet anyway.

'…fine.' The masked crusader sounded terse, his voice dangerously low.

And so Jim Gordon told him what had actually occurred that night. He spoke slowly, and without any attempts to clarify anything or to blame or defend anyone. He knew he couldn't force his opinion on the dark knight, nor did he try.

He told him how he had felt Rachel's pulse die; how he had himself closed her eyes when all attempts to revive her failed. And he told him how, when less than a moment after they were removing her bruised, burnt and broken body from the ambulance that an orderly had discovered the faintest signs of breathing and it was only the timely actions of a doctor that Rachel Dawes, who had been declared dead a mere five minutes before was able to survive the night. In the ensuing chaos created by the Joker the next day, especially the bomb threat to a hospital, the correct report had been caught in between the legal procedures and failed to meet the right pair of eyes.

It was only after the Joker had been caught and all the pandemonium in the city ended, that Gordon had received the shocking news that the woman who had died in his hands was alive.

As for how the media had gotten hold of the news, Gordon had no idea. He supposed it had been one of the hospital staff, looking for a quick buck who had leaked it to the press. A few days ago, he would have confidently vouched for his men, saying that he was sure that there was no way his office could have been responsible. But now, he wasn't too sure.

'Officially,' Gordon finished carefully, 'she was dead for five minutes.'

'I…see.' The Dark Knight muttered, his voice constrained, when Gordon had finished speaking. Watching closely, Jim could see how shaken the vigilante looked. For an instant he thought, he could see a look of pain in those dark eyes as they gazed unseeingly at him. It was the slightest twitch, gone before Gordon could be sure.

The moment passed; the Batman backed into the shadows, his face becoming hard and stony.

'Thank you, Commissioner.' The masked man said gruffly. There wasn't even the barest suggestion of sentiment in his voice. No trace that of emotion. Cold, hard, implacable, the Dark Knight was professional, if nothing else.

Gordon cleared his throat, looking around embarrassed. 'You don't have to, you know –'

'Call me the next time anything comes up.' The man growled.

'I…' Jim paused at the sudden change in the topic. 'Sure.' He said unenthusiastically. Already the Batman was backing away in the shadows. 'I will.'

It was now or never.

'Batman…wait!' Gordon uttered suddenly, his resolve hardening. The man stopped, turning to look at the police commissioner with a questioning gaze.

As Jim Gordon stood there, on the moment of indecision, he had a sudden image of a small boy, shock, guilt and horror on his face, as he sat in the police station, alone, the night his world came crashing down around him. Raising his eyes, Gordon looked into the world-weary eyes of the man in front of him.

They was no longer any fear in them, only an unceasing emptiness, weariness. The boy was long dead. And there was nothing Jim could do to lessen the man's pain. He was as helpless as he had been all those years ago, when he had consoled the child, his words sounding empty even to his own ears.

He knew he had to confront the Batman with the truth. The truth that he knew who it was behind that mask.

The truth that his secret was not as safe as he thought it to be.

Looking away, Gordon murmured, 'Be careful.'

Cocking his head slightly to one side, the dark knight surveyed the older man. 'You too. It wouldn't be good if Gotham lost its top cop because the pressures of the job got to him.' He said somewhat less grimly.

For the first time that night, Gordon cracked a true smile, a little surprised.

'Sure.' Jim nodded turning up the collar of his coat as the wind became chillier. 'By the way doesn't this thing needs to be charged or something?' He asked curiously, turning over the communicator.

There was no answer. Looking up, Gordon realized that he had been talking to the windy night.

_I'm never getting__ used to this._ He thought wryly.


	7. An Uneasy Night

**An Uneasy Night**

.

**11:10 P.M.**

**P-7/11, GCPD Residential Colony 6,**

**Gotham City**

.

'…by Vicki Vale.'

The reporter signed off, a carefully measured smile visible beneath her blonde curls, her mild honey-filled tones rounding off yet another accusation-session against the GCPD, the mayor and authority in general, this time with several 'concerned' citizens squashed in the background.

Jim was so tired; he didn't even have the energy to sigh, as he slumped down resignedly, deeper into the couch. Empty coffee mugs littered the center-table, in a pattern strangely similar to his office table and he didn't even pretend to try to do something about it. A few hours ago, Barbara had tried to make him eat something to no avail. A half-eaten sandwich, some fries and a solitary cookie were squashed in one corner of the couch, a ripped morning edition of Gotham Gazette in the other. The man sitting between them looked asleep, but for the light of the television flickering in his half-open under-bagged eyes.

Gordon had seen better days. He had definitely _lived_ better days.

He had barely reached headquarters that morning, when a swarm of reporters and cameramen had descended upon him like birds of prey, demanding explanations and confirmations about the Rachel Dawes case. To say that they had been a little more persistent and obnoxious then they usually were would have been an understatement.

Gordon had almost started stuttering in shock when Montoya, appearing out of nowhere, had clenched his arm and steered him efficiently through the flashes and the recorders into the safety of the building, closing the doors behind them with a grim finality.

'How the hell did they–?' Gordon had begun once he'd caught his breath and regained his temper.

'It was Vale, sir. Vicki Vale.' Stephens had cut in, leaning against the door-frame, 'Gotham Gazette. Supposedly, they did a short piece on it last night after they got a tip-off and now its big news.'

'This was supposed to be kept under wraps until I said so.' Gordon had muttered, once he'd realized there was nothing he could do to prevent the situation, 'Get a unit to Affinity ASAP and tell Berg to be on his guard until they arrive. No one within hundred feet of her unless they are the doctors or registered personnel, start checking the case files of everyone working in that hospital, nurses, technicians, sweeps, everyone! And get me the mayor on the phone, right now!'

What followed was a long and irritating talk with Mayor Garcia, who seemed more concerned about leaking of the information to the press and what that depicted about his reign more than anything else.

'Political manipulation, they are calling it in the streets. Sympathy vote for us that we managed to save at least one of them! This is ridiculous! Do something, Gordon! You're the bloody top cop now!' Garcia had hissed at him, slamming down the phone, all cordiality forgotten in the shadow of public outrage.

In the end, Gordon had no choice but to hold a press conference that very afternoon, admitting the GCPD's mistake and fending off angry questions from scandal-hungry media. You'd have thought Gotham hadn't had enough from the Narrows or the Joker case.

One derisive reporter had even gone as far as to question Gordon's ability to act as the new commissioner, seeing the pressure he'd been under in the past few days, let alone his intention.

The evening might have yet been uneventful, had they not got a tip about a major bank robbery about to take place. The cops had rushed to the spot only to find that it had been a false alarm. And to top it off, the Batman was there as well. What ensured was an ugly shootout, in which a couple of citizens got dragged into. The Batman escaped of course, leaving behind more than just bruised egos. And now there was even more animosity towards the caped crusader than before.

Gordon had been furious.

_How the hell had Batman known about the robbery?_

Only a handful of the cops in the MCU had received the message encrypted in a complaint letter and Gordon trusted every one of them with his life, with the possible exception of Ramirez. And there wasn't really a chance that the Batman would be working with _her._

Stephens and Montoya had forced him to go home early, more out of sympathy than anything, seeing him fumble through the colossal pile of 'Most Important', 'Requires Immediate Attention' paperwork. 'Well, you _are_ the Commissioner, Jim.' Stephens had shrugged in a non-committal manner. 'You can afford to give away the boring work.'

Now, home, a couple of hours later, like a man who has had his purpose taken away, Gordon didn't know what to do. He'd followed around Barbara uselessly for half an hour, before, getting tired, she'd told him to go back to the department if he couldn't sit down quietly.

His children had a school night, so they'd almost immediately gone to bed, leaving their father no choice but to settle down in front of the television.

Gordon exhaled slowly; clutching the remote like his life depended on it. _A soap opera,_ he was watching a _soap opera_ about the _corporate world_.

Snorting at the situation, Gordon wondered how desperate television writers could become and changed the channel. A bright sunlight beach replaced the ultra-utilitarian, slick and modern meeting rooms, and scantily clad bodyguards replaced the suited hyenas posing as businesspeople.

_Oh, God,_ Jim thought faintly, _Baywatch reruns?_

In another century perhaps, he'd have probably even considered the possibility, but _now,_ such open exaggeration and garishness repulsed him so much that it would've taken several strong men to force him to watch another flailing mammary gland or escaping butt cheek.

More out of habit than anything he looked at his watch, his mind on old cases and happier times. The lighted dial revealed that it was fifteen minutes away from the coming of a new day.

Another day.

He sighed again, wishing for the night to go on forever.

He wished he hadn't been promoted. He wished the reporters would stop hounding him and that Ramirez hadn't crossed over.

And he wished he had stopped the Batman from taking the blame for Harvey Dent.

_Stop doing it, Jim._ Barbara's voice echoed in his head, her hands on his face, smoothing out his frowns. S_top blaming yourself. You did all that you could have done. It's not your fault._

Oh, but it is, Barbara, he thought wryly. Nobody under –

'Daddy?'

Twisting around abruptly, Jim saw a sleepy-head poke out from the second door to the hallway. 'Why are you still awake?' Barbara asked, squinting at her father, suppressing a huge yawn.

'Hey Babs,' Jim said, his face breaking into a smile. 'C'mere.' He said motioning for her to come; swiping away the remains of his uneaten dinner and shoving the Gazette under the cushions.

Nodding dreamily, Barbara Gordon Junior made her way through the living room debris, her scrunched white-with-tiny doves nightgown swishing dreamily around her feet, and climbed into her father's lap.

'Hmm…this is warm.' She mumbled into his jacket, snuggling closer, letting her bunny slippers fall on the ground.

Suppressing the urge to chuckle, Jim asked seriously, adopting his interrogation voice, 'Aren't you a bit old for this miss?'

Grinning sheepishly, his daughter responded by borrowing deeper into his arms, muttering something like, 'can't…hear…whatcha…saying.'

Smiling quietly, Jim began stroking her hair, trying to untangle the tousled mass. His daughter, thankfully, had inherited her mother's thick brown locks, just like she'd inherited her sweet and caring nature. Even her smile reminded him of Barbara; when he had first met her.

He'd been fresh out of the Chicago Police Academy then, young and eager to do his part in the world. And then he'd met Barbara. Younger than him by more than five years, she'd been his first and last love. They only had a brief acquaintance before Jim had proposed and Barbara had accepted.

Then they moved to Gotham.

Barbara didn't smile like that. Not anymore.

'Daddy?' Babs said, breaking the quiet. Jim realized he had muted the television without thinking and now a group of wild hogs rammed into each other in perfect silence on National Geographic.

'Hmm?' He asked distractedly.

'Do you…do you still trust him?' Barbara asked quietly.

Gordon blinked, coming out of his reverie.

He knew he had to answer his family one day, about what had happened that night. About how he had failed his duty as a father, as a husband, as a cop. But he never expected Babs to be the one to confront him. Now faced with the task of coming out in the open, he faltered, afraid of the consequences.

He didn't need to ask her who _he_ meant.

'Do you, dad?' She asked again, her voice no longer sleepy, raising her head to look at her father. Jim met his daughter's questioning gaze with a bare look. He could never lie to her. No doubt, she'd catch him anyway, like her mother. And he'd had enough lies for one lifetime.

'I do.' He said simply. He expected questions, demanding the reasons for his actions. Accusations and reprimands most certainly. 'More than ever, if that's possible.'

'Good.' Babs commented pleased after a moment of x-raying her father with a hawk's eye and made herself comfortable again. 'I don't know why you have to lie in front of the TV daddy, but I'm happy you aren't lying to _me_'

Shocked, Jim managed to stutter, 'I would never do that to you, Babs, you know that.' _Since when had his little girl become so understanding?_

His daughter gave a beautiful smile, one that still managed to make his heart leap and wrapped her arms around his neck, saying, 'It's all right daddy, I believe in him too. I just wish you'd help him more.'

Raising an indignant eyebrow, Jim asked, 'Or else?'

'Or else I'd have to step in.' Barbara said in what he could bet was her most serious voice, 'Now, can you please take me back to my room, daddy? I'm feeling quite sleepy and I'd rather not step on your dinner again.'

Wondering if the phrase _over my dead body_ was applicable to the statement or not, Gordon scooped up his daughter in one movement and flung her over his shoulder, her muffled peals of laughter threatening to actually raise his mood.

* * *

It was the slightest of sounds that broke his fitful slumber.

Jerking awake, Gordon peered into the diffused light of the living room, searching for the source of the noise, blinking like an owl, unsure if he had just imagined it or not.

Like a haunting omen, his daughter's last words repeated in his mind.

_Or else I'd have to step in. _And here he'd thought he'd have to speak in defense of Batman but it appeared his daughter was way ahead of him.

Shaking his head, Gordon stretched his out his limbs, his mind still tired with the day's problems. He knew he needed to sleep, get some rest. But what he needed the most was to get away from it. Get away from all of it for some time.

_Yeah,_ he thought jadedly, _and that's something that is_ not_gonna happen._

Gordon scrutinized the room again wondering what had woken him up. Once again, he had fallen asleep on the couch, too tired to drag his exhausted body and slide in next to his wife, who he knew would be sleeping peacefully.

Now as he tried to climb back grudgingly to his feet, joints cracking, muscles protesting, Gordon wondered if he should maybe start using his bed once in a while. The king-size durable wood had nearly cost him a fortune, so he might as well put–

_Knock. Knock._

Gordon froze, one hand extended halfway for his glasses.

_Knock. Knock._

No doubt about it.

Inexplicable though it was, somebody was at his window.

Knocking to come in.

Twenty seven years in the police force had not prepared Gordon for this. He lived a modest third floor apartment. He was a good cop. He had a family. He had never tried to ask for a better pay or better house.

But the point was that he still lived on the _third floor._There was no way somebody could climb up to his living room window and knock. Nobody, except perhaps…

Darting forward, one hand, deftly sliding out the gun from its holster, Commissioner Gordon caught hold of the blinds and ripped them back viciously.

Against the inky backdrop of the Gotham sky, darker than the fabric of the heavens, a huge shape hung in the air, seemingly of its own accord; the familiar pointed ears, flowing cape, dark glinting eyes watching silently through the mask.

_No, it could not be._


	8. A Dangerous Secret

**A Dangerous Secret**

.

**02:49 A.M.**

**P-7/11, GCPD Residential Colony 6,**

**Gotham City**

.

Cars honked past below as Gordon stared at his window, mouth agape at the sight.

Utter disbelief coursed through him, his mind refusing to believe his eyes.

No, it could _not_ be him. _He_ would never endanger him like this. He would never dare to contact him _here_ and at this time. The person hanging outside his window could not be –

The masked crusader leaned forward and rapped his knuckles on the glass again. Impatiently.

Gordon gulped back his panic. It could definitely _not be_ _him_.

But how many other Bat-costumed building-climbing nutcases did he know?

Edging forward warily, the gun still cocked at the intruder, Gordon tried to peer into the face of the man. Now that he knew who the Batman really was, Jim hoped he'd be able to recognize him even with his mask, but the caped crusader was too far back in shadows for him to be sure. Cursing under his breath, he stepped back to get a better shot at him should he try to jump in. The glass pane was flimsy; if he tried the man could easily break through.

Without en effort really, if he was the Batman.

All his senses told Gordon that he should let the masked vigilante in but he remained standing at his place. Gordon had not lied to his daughter, he had complete faith in the Batman but some strange premonition held him back from lowering his gun or opening the window. Somehow it didn't feel right. The entire situation was wrong; the vigilante wasn't supposed to be outside his window and _he_ wasn't supposed to be hesitating to grant entry to his house to the one man in Gotham he knew he could trust his life with.

There was only one way to find out the truth. Muscles stiff with tension, Gordon slid one hand down to his pocket, feeling for the reassuring cool touch of the communicator, his eyes still on the strange visitor and stopped dead.

_It wasn't there._

Trying not to panic, Gordon skirted clear of the window, intending to go for cover when the man outside decided to take things into his own hands.

He moved so fast, Gordon barely had time to see before the dark knight was no longer suspended in mid-air, but sitting on his ledge, one hand deftly working with the window latch. And before he knew it, the glass pane was sliding up and –

'Stop!' Gordon shouted, pointing his gun at him, hoping against hope that Barbara was still asleep. 'Stop right there or I _will_ shoot you!' He hoped his voice didn't show how desperate he was.

The intruder paused, one hand inside, looking at the commissioner quizzically. A single bead of sweat trickled down Jim's forehead and inside his collar. Less than four days ago he had vowed that he'd never allow his family to be put at risk again and now it looked like he was going to be tested.

'You would have already shot me if you wanted to, Commissioner.' The man said huskily. Before Gordon could reply, the window opened fully and the masked man slid in. Dark cape rustled around the black boots as they stepped lightly on the living room carpet. One gloved hand slid the window back shut neatly as its owner turned to face the commissioner.

Blue eyes stared through the mask at the barrel of the gun pointed at him, held by experienced hands. 'And do you know why you won't shoot me Commissioner?' he queried, head cocking to one side. The voice was gruff, but not deep enough. The cape hid the fact that the shoulders weren't as broad and it wasn't Kevlar that he wore.

'Why is it that you won't shoot the very man whom you condemned in front of everyone?' He asked again, the forced growl apparent in his voice. 'Is it because you're afraid of something? Perhaps, your own conscience, which wouldn't allow you to kill an innocent man?'

It was too much. Too much for him to take in. 'Batman,' Gordon began, breathing deeply, the gun still cocked at him, 'is a murderer and an outlaw. I would never hesitate to bring him down.'

The man laughed. 'I don't _see_ you trying to bring me down.'

'That's because you're not the Batman.' Gordon replied calmly.

The man stopped laughing. 'How do you know?' he growled before recovering and asking. 'Is it the old age, Gordon?' He said quietly. 'I _am_ the Batman.'

'Don't kid yourself, who ever you are.' Gordon snapped back loudly, trying to mask the fact that he was slowly inching towards the right. He knew all the Batman copies carried guns. He just hadn't seen this one's yet. 'Before he decided to kill people, Batman worked with my office.' Gordon continued, unperturbed. 'I'd know it was him if he were standing in my house.'

'You got me, Commish.' The man looked as if he found something amusing. 'So it's true, then. You _did used_ to work with him.'

'Yes.' Gordon admitted angrily. 'It's something I regret, but yes, I did work with him.' _Almost to the door now, just keep talking to the crazy guy._

'And yet you didn't hesitate even once before accusing him of murders someone else committed!' The man hissed back, glaring at Gordon, his restlessness evident. Jim halted, forgetting everything else.

_No, not possible._Nobody knew. Nobody _should_ have known this.

'How can you say that?' he challenged shaking himself mentally. He'd have to wheedle out the information, disarm the intruder _and protect_ his family. And try not to get killed in the process.

The intruder looked pleased now as he pulled out a folder from inside his cape and threw it across the room. Catching it awkwardly with his left hand, Jim gave the man a queer look. 'What's this? Your Arkham records?' he asked and got a lazy smile in return.

'No, this is a copy of a conversation that took place on the 6th of June in a car driving on Jackson Street.' The fake-Batman said. 'The car shortly met with an accident but I've managed to recover this. I'd like for you to have a look at it.'

Without lowering his gun, Jim Gordon flipped open the folder with one hand and glanced at the single sheet of paper. For a second, the Commissioner stopped breathing. Even though he had never heard the words spoken aloud, he could guess who had spoken them.

'Find anything interesting?' The intruder asked lightly. He'd stopped moving, his excitement almost palpable in the air as he looked on coldly through his masked eyes.

The words swam in front of eyes, as Gordon closed the file quietly and let it fall down, his hand shaking just a little, his mouth stretched into a grim line.

'It's nonsense.' He said voice completely neutral and his hands shook no longer. 'No such thing ever took place.'

The impostor cocked his head curiously, almost eagerly, 'Don't be too sure too early Commish,' he whispered and his hand disappeared beneath his cape.

Gordon felt all his muscles tightening as they got ready to spring into action. _Shoot the bastard!_ His mind screamed but somehow, even the thought of protecting his family didn't make him pull the trigger and he hesitated a few more seconds, allowed his instincts to pass unanswered.

_You're going to die –_ he thought before miraculously, the impostor pulled out an empty hand.

Or so he thought.

The polished dark surface of the recorder gleamed as it was set down carefully on the center-table and looking up briefly at the stricken man, the imposter moved backwards, his movements deliberately slow and cautious.

'Do you have the strength to push that button, Commissioner?' He asked quietly, his eyes never leaving the commissioner's face. A movement in the hall distracted Jim for a second but he dared not take his eyes off the tape recorder.

'For once, can you show the courage to face the hard truth instead of following the easy wrong? Can you do that Gordon? I am giving you a choice. You can both continue lying and arrest me here and now. I don't have a gun or any another weapon, if that's any consolation for your blood pressure.' Gordon didn't move and the imposter began again warily. '_Or,_ you can press that button and listen to the very damning evidence that the person who actually killed Sergeant Wuertz, Salvador Maroni and his driver was–'

'_Enough_ with this foolhardiness!' Gordon barked, deliberately ignoring the shifting shadows, from the corner of his eye. 'You think you can break into my apartment and try to shift a criminal's blame onto an innocent man with _nothing_ more than theories and false evidence _and I am going to believe it?'_

The impostor didn't reply but Gordon could see the anger, in his narrowed eyes, in the clenched jaws, in the rigidness of the posture. Breathing down his anger, the man unexpectedly bowed his head, as if tired of arguing.

'I know you are lying.' He began when he'd calmed down and there was no forced growl or gruffness in his voice this time. Gordon suddenly realized that he was young, _much too young._ 'And I know you know what truly happened that night.' He said. 'And perhaps you understand why it happened because _I_ don't, Commissioner.' He said shaking his head with clear resignation.

A strange whim was forming in the older man's mind. Unexpected thought it may seem, Gordon knew that neither he nor his family were at any mortal peril and now that his entire focus was on the man standing before him dejectedly in a fake bat-costume, he felt like he knew the man didn't have any plans of hurting anyone.

'Who are you?' He asked finally, lowering the gun.

An ironical smile stretched across the young man's face, though his eyes remained curiously sad, 'I think you see the paradox in asking a masked man who he is. Now, if only you'd asked me what I wanted…'

'Well, what _do you_ want?' Gordon asked undeterred.

'I want to know the truth.'

Gordon let out his breath, 'I can't tell you anything, son.'

'Why?' The man was now more confused than angry. 'I want to know why…_why Dent,_ killed those people. And I want to know why _you_ of all people are covering up for him and laying the blame on the Batman!'

'What is it to you? Why do you care?' Jim asked.

The young man looked struck for a second.

'I just do. I just care, okay?' He snarled finally. 'Forget about me, we are talking about why you did it.'

'How did you get the recording?'

'I said, leave it!' He screamed furiously, causing Gordon to raise the gun again. 'It's of no use to you where or how I got it. I just _did,_ and now I want to know what truly happened that night.'

Gordon couldn't meet his eyes as he sat down on the couch, absentmindedly tapping against the recorder. He was at crossroads. He knew he would have to make up his mind fast; the man wouldn't wait for him to sort out his confused thoughts. A part of him yearned to yell out the truth, to justify himself and his actions while another part told him to stop thinking and eliminate the threat to their intricately created conspiracy.

Gordon knew he was a good judge of character; that was how he had survived this far. That was how he'd trusted the Batman and that was why he'd never had any faith in Harvey Dent.

Despite the fact that the man was impersonating a known criminal, had forcefully broken into his home and had accused him of lying to the world, Gordon thought he could trust him.

Just as he was about to come to a decision, his eyes slid over the communicator lying snugly in the corner of the couch and next to it, looking quite out of its era, a large black cell phone. The one _she_ had helped him select when he'd gone to return his old one.

A sudden image of the dark-haired dark-eyed woman, with a large bruise on her jaw, standing behind him flashed before his eyes and Gordon exhaled deeply.

'I am sorry. I cannot break my word.' He stated flatly.

He had expected the man to react strongly, so he was already ready when the man swept the recorder of the table, smashing it against the wall. Gordon jumped down on him, pistol butt ready, but the impostor dodged him narrowly.

Just as he was about to tackle him again, a horribly familiar voice began speaking from the broken recorder. Both of them froze in their actions.

'–to know the other cop in Gordon's unit.'

'Listen,' another man's desperate tones filled the air, 'if I tell you, will you let me go?'

'It won't hurt your chances.' Harvey Two-Face Dent said.

There was a pause, in which both Gordon and the impostor as well the man in the recording seemed to hold their breaths.

'It was Ramirez.' He said finally.

Gordon let his breath out, slumping forward slightly as Salvador Maroni's last words floated into his living room.

'You said–!'

'I said it couldn't hurt your chances.' Two-Face said matter-of-fact.

A pause. Then,

'You're a lucky man.'

Another pause.

'He's not.'

Gordon didn't understand and obviously, Maroni didn't either. 'Who?' he asked confused.

There was a slight click, like a seat belt being snapped shut and then,

'Your driver.'

The loud bang of gunshot rang out, followed by the sound of crashing and the tape ran out.

A heavy silence descended upon the living room, and Gordon thought he heard a stifled sob. Ambling over to the wall, he picked up the broken pieces of the tape, staring at them like they might yet reveal some other hidden. A faint line had appeared between his eyes and the color had drained form his face.

'Now you see,' the fake Batman said plainly, but he looked shaken. 'I do have the evidence and I am not afraid to reveal it.' The victory was clear in his voice.

'What do you want?' Gordon asked him for the final time, jadedly.

'I want you to tell the truth to the world. I want Harvey Dent being condemned for his crimes and the Batman's name be cleared once and for all.' He stated without hesitating.

'I…_can't!'_ Gordon cried frenziedly, 'don't you see? If Harvey Dent is condemned, everything that he's done, all the good that he has brought to this city, will be lost!'

'I don't care.'

'Well, you should!' Gordon spat angrily, 'If you care about anything, care about this! Understand what will happen when a city realizes that its hero is a murderer! Everything we've worked for will unravel!'

The impostor replied, 'I won't let the thoughts of what will be or what can happen, come in the way of one man's justice, Commissioner. You should know that better than anyone else.' Then backing away and sliding open the window, he looked at the old man for the last time, 'you have four months Commissioner, until the next elections. Think about it. I don't want Garcia,' he spat out the name with disgust, 'to come back into office riding upon the martyr flag of Harvey Dent that he is nowadays hanging from his window. If, before the polls, you haven't decided which side to take, I'll do your work for you. Have a good night Commissioner.'

'Wait, I–!' Gordon lurched forward but the man was already out. Leaning out of his window, Gordon looked down to an empty street. Turning up his head, he saw the end of a cape disappearing over the ledge of his terrace and the faint crunching of boots on cement.

Gordon sighed and let the worry, fear and tiredness appear on his face for the first time.

The man was gone.

Closing the window, Gordon walked over to the back of the couch and took the crouching little girl, who had been crying quietly, into his arms. Resting her head on his shoulder, he turned off the lights of the living room and settled down on the couch.

'It's ok, Barbara,' he said softly, hating himself for lying once again, as he stroked her hair, his eyes unfocused, 'everything's going to be fine. It's all going to be fine.'


	9. Unfulfilled Slumber Part 2

**Unfulfilled Slumber**

**Part 2**

_._

**6:23 P.M.**

**Room No. 14, Affinity Hospital,**

**Gotham City**

.

The first time she awoke, it was dusk.

Bright light flooded above her and a faint crisp odor of disinfectant could be discerned.

Opening her eyes, Rachel was pleased to find out that she could turn her head. Looking around, she could make out the faint outline of the foot of her bed and the IV tube attached to her arm. She could feel the cold seeping in through the thin cotton slip she was wearing. A hospital.

She was in a hospital.

Through her window, she could see Gotham, alive, with noise and lights in the evening air, welcoming the night and the nightlife. A life or hundred could end but the great pulsating organism that was Gotham would go on living, its vast mechanism absorbing yet another sacrifice, its engine gearing up to hang on through another day, to suffer another night.

She tried to sit up, but was mildly surprised when her body refused to move. Rachel already felt hot and bothered in the stuffy room when a second ago she had been freezing. Lifting up a shaking hand to wipe off the beads of sweat that had gathered on her forehead she felt dizzy for a moment…and everything came rushing back in a crescendo of sensations, overwhelming all her thoughts.

_The blare of sirens…_

_Fire licking her skin…_

His_hands on her shoulders…_

Thoughts swirled around her head, sometimes distorted and disconnected, and sometimes, startlingly lucid.

_A dash of purple…_well hellooo there, beautiful_…a flash of silver…_you want to know why I use knives_…a fountain of crimson…_you think you're in pain now_…a trail of oil…_let's take, a trip through hell_,_together, _you_ right here and _I_ out there in uh-Gorrrdon's fortress, but don't worry, we won't leave ah-_Dent_ outta all the fun…

_No! No! No! Not Harv –_

There was no escaping from the nightmare.

She didn't know she was screaming until the doctors came running.

* * *

Consciousness returned, uninvited and sudden, the aftereffects of a drug-induced sleep which does not drive out tiredness but only pushes it to the back of all the numbness. The slow throbbing in her head had dulled, leaving behind a stark clarity for the first time, allowing her to think.

Rachel clenched her fist, feeling the empty air. She had had a strange dream. _Had someone been holding her hand?_

Pushing away the absurd thought, she touched her face, tracing over the scarred skin, her lips curving up wryly, thinking what her god-fearing mother would say if she saw her now.

_Atonement for her sins? The price of her mistakes?_

Probably pass it off as a divine design of the all-mighty.

Her mother couldn't have seen evil if it danced in front of her, waving a knife in one hand and a detonator in the other. Rachel wondered vaguely if it were the drugs which were making her remember the woman after such a long time. She had all but cut her completely out of her life.

Mrs. Dawes had been a pious woman. A devout catholic, she had tried to inspire her daughter to share the grandeur of her religion many a time.

Unsuccessfully.

Rachel had about as much interest in passing her time in attending masses and praying as Bruce had in working to get good grades. In the years following their move from the Wayne Manor to the city, Mrs. Dawes became feebler in her attempts to convince her daughter to put her trust in the power of the divine. How couldn't she, when even the world seemed to have lost its faith, in God and in fellow man?

Gotham's fall from grace only made her more disturbed, until she could no longer live in a place where the goodness had died, as easily as the pulling of a trigger, as a flash of knife, only to be replaced by a grim veracity, austere in its intensity, bare and brutal. As the city fell into decay, her mother became more and more agitated, unable to protect her daughter and herself from the harsh reality. What she didn't understand was that Rachel had long ago given up believing in her words, her tales of triumph of good over evil, of everything happening as a result of God's plan for mankind.

So in Rachel's second yeah at college, her mother moved out, away from Gotham and its unkindness, leaving behind a daughter who had no time for her naivety and her beliefs.

_My daughter, the cynic. My daughter, the skeptic,_ her mother used to say. She wasn't entirely to blame._My daughter, the lawyer_ had been added later on, but Rachel didn't like to think about _that._

Not only would she completely agree to disagree with her mother on each and everything, Rachel would never pass a single opportunity to scoff at her mother's steadfast faith and superstitious nature. Gotham's descent only strengthened her conviction that praying and believing were useless. If you wanted to get something done, you had to go out there and do it. You couldn't trust anyone. The world was a jungle, and there wolves on every corner, ready to tear you apart.

Rachel had been told to believe in the inherent goodness of humanity but all her experiences had proved otherwise. Her mother couldn't see the true colors of the world they lived in, so she had escaped.

But _she_ had stayed. Stayed to endure, to stand up…_to fight._

And look where that had got her now.

In the deepest corners of her mind, she always wondered if the real reason she had kept on fighting was really to make the world a better place or to prove her mother wrong.

Lawyers were supposed to be smart, intelligent. People who could make the correct judgments at the right time.

However, lately it seemed she had made very bad decisions. Letting Harvey take the fall for Batman, agreeing to go ahead with his daring plan, leaving him hanging on a thread of faith were only some of them.

But the one decision, she did not regret…was giving the letter to Alfred. The one she'd written in a fit of rage, whatever cool her words might have sounded.

_Bruce read the letter. He decided to move on. He let me go._

It had been just been proved in the ultimate test of all. He chose to save the one hope for Gotham rather than save her. In the end, he had made the right choice. After all her misgivings and her doubts, he had taken the right path. That was all she needed to know. Gotham's future was in safe hands again. Batman was no longer vulnerable. He could be the hero of Gotham. The one they deserved and needed.

With the sense of relief, surprisingly, came a misplaced sense of guilt and bitterness. Taken aback, Rachel tried to push it to the back of her mind. Wasn't that what she'd wanted? She had given him up long ago. Given up on the small hope that one day they could be together.

So why was she feeling distressed now all of a sudden?

_He could be the Knight of Gotham. He could be everything._ She tried to reason with herself.

Then realization washed over her like a bucket of icy cold water.

Cruel.

She was cruel. In her own selfishness, she had denied him the one chance of a normal life. The chance to escape from his anguish. The chance to put away his mask; not only the leather one, but the one he always wore, day after day, week after week, month after month, in front of the world, hiding what was best of him. Denying the world the glimpse of the true Bruce Wayne. Everything that Thomas Wayne had been and more.

Much, much more.

The one chance of salvation.

_He is the future. He will save Gotham._She tried to disagree with herself in an argument she knew she was going to lose. Because whatever she may say, and whatever he may have left unsaid, Rachel knew him too well to know that if there would ever have been a time when Bruce Wayne stopped being Batman, it would be with Rachel beside him.

But now, now there was no way he could leave the mantle of the Dark Knight. The system was too corrupt, the cops were too corrupt and the Joker had just shown that to the world, albeit in a brutal manner. Batman would never stop as long as the mob was alive and thriving. He would make sure they were gone for good before he'd go out.

He would never stop until Gotham was safe again. She would have to accept that.

_Maybe_, she thought faintly, as she drifted off to sleep, watching dawn approach, _we can be friends again._

* * *

'Doctor Elliot?'

'Yes?'

'Good evening. I am here to take Rachel Dawes with me.'

'_Rachel Dawes?_ Are you relation?'

'…no. I'm a friend.'

'I'm sorry, I don't think…'

'I'm sure we can work something out, Dr.…Thomas, isn't it?'

'Yes. But the police…'

'Oh, you'll be getting a call from the Commissioner soon, Thomas. He'll explain everything. '

'This is highly irregular…'

'How about we take this to your office?'

'I…'

'Excellent hospital. I'd _love_ to help out sometime.'

'Who exactly do you think you…?'

'Wayne. Bruce Wayne.'


	10. East End Tales Part 1

**East End Tales Part 1**

**.**

**8:42 P.M.**

**East End,**

**Gotham City**

.

In a dim room, in a sleazy building, deep within one of the shadiest districts of Gotham, a thin whistle pierced the sacrosanct silence, earning a low angry hiss form the occupant of the room, who stirred awake from his fitful slumber.

Emerging from somewhere between the turrets of papers, newspaper and magazine articles that littered the pizza-topping covered, though cockroach-free half-a-century year-old carpet, the tall spindly thin man blinked into focus as the harsh glare from outside his window blinded his myopic eyes. All along the narrow lane, streetlights blinked on and off in existence, some had even been shattered, but this one, this single streetlamp burned as brightly as the day it had been installed, decades ago.

Cursing under his breath and stepping over the debris littered floor, the shrill acute whistle of the kettle continuing in the background, the man made his way to the window and drew the curtains shut with a flourish, throwing the room into a nerve-racking darkness.

Only a thin line of dust, visible because of a narrow beam of light entering through the keyhole of the door remained. Someone had partially stuck a wad of gum in the loop of the hole and the pattern of light that fell on the carpet was strangely esoteric; a crescent moon on a staff, or an ancient sickle.

Forgetting why he had woken up, the man looked around to do anything. Picking up the remote which had fallen off, he turned on the foot-by-foot television set.

Despite the bad reception and grainy quality, the red-haired man could see that his boss, who also happened to be the most eligible bachelor in Gotham, looked tired and angry as he pushed through the crowds of reporters, pointedly ignoring every question being thrown at him which he thought was strange.

As usual, a few moments later, the sound kicked in,

'…astonishing move, famous playboy Bruce Wayne has started many rumors after he _persuaded_ Commissioner Gordon to allow the transfer of Joker-attack survivor, former assistant district attorney Rachel Dawes, who is currently in coma, from Affinity Hospital to his own personal penthouse where it is claimed he will employ a hand-picked team of specialists to treat Ms. Dawes. On board this privileged lineup are Dr. Leslie Thompson, Dr. Thomas E –'

He switched it off with disgust; he had no time for the rich and the pretentious, or their publicity stunts.

Now that his optic nerves could start working again in the accustomed darkness, the man set about calming the frantic kettle, which he had completely forgotten about before deciding to doze off.

He saw that the tea had spilled over; dark angry puddles spreading across the stone platform. One disadvantage of having a bedroom-cum-living room-cum-kitchen apartment, apart from the aesthetic, hygienic and personal discontent was that you simply could not ignore the mess by resignedly closing a weary door. Again and again your attention would be drawn to that little bit of disorder, that little conundrum in your perfectly neat, organized, worked out world.

Not that the tenant of the room was particularly hygienic or well-ordered; his obsession with his work was too great to leave him any time to try to tidy up the place. But he managed fairly well nevertheless.

Grabbing a dirty rag the tired man soaked up the spilled tea, his thoughts somewhere else. It was only after he'd cleared up that he realized that the damage was more potent than he'd initially thought. The beverage had seeped down the side of the platform and what he'd thought to be just another shadow in the room was actually black tea steadily dripping over his books and soaking through the carpet.

In a moment, all other thoughts vanished, leaving only a single purpose behind.

Throwing away the rag, the man disappeared in the bathroom, emerging minutes later wearing thick gloves, and holding a scrubber and a bottle of cleaning fluid. Spreading the acid, he began rubbing furiously as the stains in the carpet.

But however much he toiled, however hard he rubbed, the stains won't come off.

_Keep going, keep going._

An hour passed. Two hours. The brush had almost given away; its bristles grinded into half-an-inch stumps. The bottle had now less than three inches of fluid left and its cork had rolled away under the bed forgotten.

His arms ached from the constant to and fro motion and sweat trickled in small rivulets across his back and inside his palms but the man didn't stop, his Lincoln green eyes glinting with an almost maniacal fervor in his gaunt face.

_But still the goddamn stains won't. Come. Off._

On and on he went.

_Must find another way. Must get a…_

'James?'

…_Nina?_

A sliver of light appeared as the door creaked open an inch and a pair of large fearful eyes stared into the darkness, searching for him.

Like an animal trapped in a corner, the creature looked up at the intruder, frozen in the act.

'Are you there? I can't see anything.' The girl asked nervously, further opening the door, one foot sliding in. Sensing that he still had a chance, the man carefully placed down the brush and smoothing back his sparse carrot colored hair sprang to his feet.

'Don't…come here Nina.' He spoke out, his voice a little hoarse from not being used for so long. 'There's a mess everywhere. I'm coming out.'

'Oh!' The girl started at his voice, apparently pleased, 'So you _are_ home then.' Stepping back into the relieving corridor the girl waited with a patient air.

Waiting for a moment to see his reflection in the mirror hung on the peeling walls, the man hesitated; his clothes were rumpled from the night's work and he smelled of disinfectants. His color had gone from being pale to sickly pale and the circles under his eyes looked like a pair of matching handbags. A child from UNICEF might have looked healthier than him.

And he didn't even want to think about his hair.

Hating himself, the man the girl knew as James slipped in through the half-opened door and then pushed it close, fiddling with the lock for a moment to give himself some time to adjust to the bright light of the cheap CFL lamps that lined the hallway.

Taking a deep breath, the man turned around…

…and stopped short of breath.

Somehow his average-looking seventeen year-old neighbor had transformed into a beautiful young woman, looking somewhat ill at ease and small in the second-hand black party dress and the borrowed stilettos. Gone was the simple lank hair; in its place a stylish knot sat on the back of her neck, a few stray strands gently caressing her exposed neckline.

A pale hand clutched at the dress, creating worrisome wrinkles and the girl had obviously been chewing her lower lip for some time now. He'd never seen anyone look so beautiful.

'I just wanted to say,' she began breathlessly, 'the results just came out. And guess what, I…I think I did pretty well. So, I…thank you for everything…that you've done for me. I wouldn't have…come this far without you. Thank you for those long hours trying to stuff me with algebra and calculus and –helping me with everything else in general.' She rolled her eyes sheepishly. 'I wouldn't have passed without you.' She finished very quickly.

The man realized that he hadn't said anything and after an eternity has passed he managed to close his mouth and stutter out, his hands shaking nervously, 'It was…no problem at all. Nothing at all. I was honored to…assist you. I mean…_me_ l_–_liked to teach you, to help you.' He flushed deeply, his eyes quickly dropping to the ground.

'No, it was.' She said slowly, her lips curving slightly, 'It really was something for me, James.'

A feeling similar to euphoria and happiness seemed to rise up inside him, and the crappy lighting didn't seem so bad anymore as it illuminated the girl's face. Warmth was spreading inside his chest as he felt his heart beats quickening. An awkward silence stretched between them, broken only by the constant drone of the television in the opposite apartment.

'_-this win! And let's see what the wheel has to say –!'_

'_-is to kill the red horn.'_

'_-the moment. Please, lemme –'_

'_-question?'_

Random snatches from the constantly changing channels registered uselessly in James' mind, twisting themselves to form queer phrases, however hard he tried not to think about them. This was the first time she'd ever thanked him.

the _**-question**_ is a wheel!

_kill it_…and win _-the moment._

No, **kill** the moment!

_Ask_ the _question…?_

'-James?' The girl's voice broke into his reverie.

'Hmm?' He blinked furiously, trying to rid his head of the thoughts and focus on the present.

'I said I have gotta go now,' the girl said slowly, indicating towards the stairs. A few weeks back, the man's strange behavior might have scared her off, but now Nina had grown accustomed to seeing him space out for minutes at end, start talking very fast or fall asleep at odd intervals so often that it hardly made her bat an eyelash. 'And I won't be coming home tonight. Nor the night after.' She added after a pause, looking thoughtful.

'Where are you going?' James faltered as he asked, the bubble of happiness slowly diffusing.

'Oh,' the girl laughed softly, a strange glimmer coming into her eyes, 'didn't I tell you? I'm sure I must have mentioned it. No? Well, it doesn't matter now. I am running away from home.'

James stared at her, completely befuddled, his world going upside down, 'But…but where will you go? What will –will you do?'

'Oh, I don't know,' she drawled, looking anywhere but at him, 'Jimmy and I will figure something out. By the way, mum and her latest _friend_ don't know shit; they think I'm off to the prom. Like I'll go to that freak show.' Nina scoffed at her apartment door like it didn't understand her, crossing her arms in front of her defensively. 'I've got my stuff over at D's place and we'll take a cab outta town from there. No way am I staying in this hell anymore.' She finished dispassionately, tapping her heel against the floor, folding her arms decisively.

'Who's Jimmy?' James asked quietly.

Trying not to look too impatient, the girl spoke slowly and clearly, like explaining to a particularly dumb child. 'My boyfriend, remember? You've met. I brought him home this one time and oh –I just remembered, we once…bunked in your apartment when you were out as well 'coz _she_ was in and well, anyway…'

The man looked away, his voice empty, his vision crumbling, 'Is Jimmy the one you brought after Steve and before Kenneth or the one after Kenneth?'

Nina paused, her eyes narrowing dangerously and suddenly she didn't look so helplessly beautiful anymore. A heel clacked hard against the floor and James found he could not bring himself to look up into those coldly cruel eyes.

'James?' She whispered.

'Yes?'

'I didn't know...you cared so much. Or noticed so much.'

'I...do.' He said hopefully, lifting his eyes to look at her. 'I do care.'

But the moment passed, a shadow seemed to be lifted from her face and she said sweetly, 'Oh, James, you _really_ are so sweet...and _so_ forgetful. Jimmy was here long before Kenneth the Kinky and Steve the Sexaholic even got a chance to worship me.'

Laughing out suddenly, though her eyes remained frozen, Nina looked less and less like the girl he'd known. _No,_ a voice said inside his head, _you knew this. You already knew this._

Coming dangerously close, and trailing a questioning finger up his chest, while he stood paralyzed, his eyes wide in shock, she leaned in for moment and whispered shyly into his ear, standing on tip-toes.

'I _could have_ said Jimmy was here before you, James. But then…you were never _really_ here.' Then she turned around gracefully and walked away from him, hips swaying, humming a tune to the air.

When the man had cried himself to exhaustion, he curled up in the middle of the floor, his frame still racking with occasional sobs. His thoughts whirled in a fury.

_She was hopelessly vulnerable. She would never survive out there._

_No, you fool,_another voice said_, she is cold and vile and vicious. She has been playing you all this long and you knew it._

_She was his a-n-g-e-l. Ardent knowing Genial__ Emancipated Love._

You knew she was the devil.

_She is gone. She is g-o-n-e. Good riddance Of aNother Enigma._

No, she was never here in the first place.

_It was only a dream._

Yes, nobody could have been that perfect. Not like you.

_It was all…a d-r-e-a-m. Dark Riddle of Enormous Anguish and..._

Soon he was fast asleep, his breathing shallow and troubled.

* * *

Later that night, the ringing telephone broke the silence of the apartment, wrenching the man out from his troubled slumber.

'Am I speaking to a Mr. James Caring?' The warm baritone of the CEO of Wayne Enterprises managed to float through his fogged senses.

'Ye–s, yes, I am speaking.' He mumbled, searching for the watch. Three a.m., the lighted dial read.

'Oh, good. Sorry to disturb you at this late hour, Mr. Caring. I am Lucius Fox.'

'Mr. Fox, I, sir…It's no problem…' He stuttered in shock, trying to understand what was happening.

'I'm afraid it is, Mr. Caring.' Fox's tone had suddenly become grave and James felt his stomach drop.

'Problem, sir?' He asked, fearfully, the bewilderment apparent in his voice. He wasn't used to getting late night calls from anyone, let alone the CEO of the company he worked in.

'Yes, Mr. Caring.' Fox said, 'there seems to be a great problem.'

'What do you mean?' He said quickly then added, 'sir.'

'I am, of course,' Fox began, 'speaking of your clandestine snooping around the Research and Development database, your unlawful hacking into the mainframe system and the resulting fraud of one point six million dollars plus stealing of classified company files. I do not need your acceptance for committing these crimes, I have documented proof.' Fox stated naturally. 'Had I gone to the police first, then tomorrow you'd have had a very early wake-up call, Mr. Caring.'

James felt his throat go dry. For the second time, he felt that the world had been turned upside down. A new kind of panic was now rising up inside him. His hands had started shaking and even in the cold, he felt himself starting to sweat.

_How could he have been found out? He had left no trails, made no mistakes. It was impossible._

_I-m-_possible.

He realized that the man on the line was waiting for him to speak.

'Then why didn't you?' was all he managed to say, clutching at the receiver.

'An incident like this could effectively ruin your entire life, Mr. Caring,' the man said carefully, 'not to mention cause quite a scandal for the WayneCorps. And bad publicity is bad publicity, wherever you look at it from. No, frankly, I was impressed by your work. Surely, you'd excel more by honing your talents and applying them for good in fields where they can be deadly. And so…surprising though it may seem, I am willing to overlook this little mishap…for a price naturally.'

James could not believe his ears. A moment ago, he had had his whole miserable life flash before him, preparing him for something a hundred times worse, but now; a sliver of a chance had appeared before him.

'What do you want?' he asked.

'I want the money back. All one point six million dollars of it and not a penny less. And I want those files back too. All of them.' Fox spoke authoritatively.

'I will return them. I'll return everything. But there was nothing in those files.' James blurted out, now trying to be as cooperative as he could be, 'I swear I didn't see any classified information. They were just lists of connections and chartings of high frequency wave length–'

'A government telecommunications project,' Lucius interrupted urgently, 'tests conducted by the defense department in major metropolitan cities, including Gotham. I'm telling you all this just so you know where you stand, Mr. Caring. Of course, if any of it resurfaces anywhere in the market or a terrorist cell, then _I_ probably would be the least of your worries.'

'I'll do it.' James spoke quickly, clutching the receiver. 'I'll return everything.'

'And, one more thing, Mr. Caring, I need you to leave Gotham City.'

'–I'll bring it…_what?'_James Caring stuttered, not trusting his ears.

'Leave Gotham. There is no place for a criminal like you in this city. I suggest you do it quickly and without much notice if you know what's good for you. You will be duly compensated for all your losses and discharged with a full-year's payment, of course.'

'But…but…I can't leave. Gotham is my home.' He tried desperately, his voice cracking.

There was a silence on the line and James thought he'd cut the connection but then Fox coughed and said, 'You do not steal from your home James.'

'_I'm sorry!_Please don't force me to leave–'

'And you do not _lie_ from your family.'

'No –no, don't hang up!' He tried frantically.

'Sweet dreams, Mr. Caring.'

'_Who found me? Who found me out?'_ He screamed.

An eternity seemed to pass as he held onto the receiver like his life depended on it, before the other man spoke,

'I did.'


	11. Awakening

**Awakening**

.

**9:12 A.M.**

**Wayne Manor**

**Gotham**

**.**

Cold sunlight flooded the room as the curtains were pulled back and Rachel opened her eyes to a glorious and chilling sunrise the next time she awoke.

Even without knowing, she knew that a lot of time had passed. The past was but a distant memory, blurred and meaningless, as the present came into sharp focus.

She was not in the hospital.

A brilliant white glow diffused into the room, making the spotless cream walls gleam like polished ivory and illuminated the bronze frames of a picture hanging above the massive fireplace, where a fire burnt merrily. The portrait was of a family of three, sitting in front of their stately manor, the father, mother and son beaming down at her, the sun rising up behind them, in the distance, the blurry outline of a butler behind the curtains, caught in a flutter on the camera.

Turning her head slightly Rachel allowed her eyes to rest on the man standing beside the life-size window, one half of his face lost in the glare of the sun, the other cloaked in shadow.

A tired pale face, dark messy hair sticking up, deep black eyes that seemed to consume her as they turned upon her.

'Bruce.' She managed to rasp out.

And then the dam broke.

* * *

In the blink of an eye Bruce had crossed the room and was kneeling beside her bed. His eyes, darker than the darkest night, seemed to overwhelm her with their joy and uncontrollable fever as he grasped her hand firmly.

Rachel felt her throat constrict as their eyes locked; there was so much anxiety, understanding and protectiveness in them that she wondered why she'd ever doubted him, before he shut his eyes as tears threatened to fall down, his lips parting to take in a steeling breath of air.

In a rare moment of epiphany, she knew was that the man beside her was Bruce. _Her_ Bruce. The one who had left and never come back.

She saw how tired he looked; the bags under his eyes seemed to speak for themselves. He opened his eyes again, more resolute, determined not to break down in front of her. Rachel tried to suppress her smile.

Even after all these years, she could see through him, clear as day. It was like the past twenty two years had never happened; that they were eight year olds again.

Bruce.

He was her friend, her best friend. She was his playmate. His soul mate.

_How could she have forgotten those years? The time they'd spent together? _

Bruce laid a hand on her forehead, frowning slightly, to calm his trembling as much as to assure her. He tried to smile at her but it never reached his eyes.

Rachel didn't want to look away from him, afraid that it was all a dream that the next moment she would wake up in the hospital again, watching the shadows move across the white wall and the white floor, as day faded into night and night lightened to another day. The relentless moving on of life, regardless of pain or joy, love or death.

No one had ever come to see her, not Harvey, and not the doctors every time she had been awake. She wondered if she looked that horrible and then realized with a somewhat vague surprise that she didn't mind even if she did. What did looks matter when you know that the next second could be your last?

Rachel gave a lop-sided smile.

'Hey,' Bruce said in a small voice, his eyes lighting up, 'how do feel–'

Pulling down, she embraced him gently, feeling the taut muscles rippling under his thin cotton shirt. Slowly, she felt him loosen under her, and gently, almost hesitatingly he allowed himself to hold her, his strong arms gripping her thin emancipated body like they would never again release her, their forms molding together like they'd been made for each other.

She remembered him now, and remembered how it had been.

There were no secrets, lies or pretensions in their friendship. They had no masks to hide behind. There was no wariness or doubt between them, only unwavering loyalty borne out of years of sharing treasures and secrets, getting in and out of trouble, discovering the world and their selves.

An unbreakable bond, a steadfast faith, a mutual understanding between two souls, linked together by an unspoken oath, taken long ago in the nights of hiding together and the days spent chasing each other.

_Had the world clouded her eyes so much that she'd never recognized that the little boy was still there, beneath the dark and the sunny mask? Had she given up her hope too quickly, too selfishly, possessed by the mad rage of a moment, watching her love fall for her friend? _

Gotham is not beyond saving, he'd told her once, and she'd nodded her assent.

_But what about you,_ Bruce, she wanted to ask,_ is there any hope left for you?_

The man beside her opened his eyes, baring his soul to her.

She understood now.

She'd never stopped loving him, however many miles or beliefs separated them. Even though more than two decades had passed since she'd felt that way, Rachel knew her love for him had never died, not when he'd threatened to become a wanderer, a murderer, a squanderer or even a protector, because in the end, like always, he'd done the right thing. He always did the right thing, however challenging or difficult.

He had chosen to save Gotham.

How could she have _ever_ doubted _him?_

But there was no going back. By her own hand, she'd changed things. Things that couldn't be undone. Her feelings for him would never change, and she couldn't bring herself to hurt him more by giving him a hope that might never be fulfilled. She'd already injured him enough, many times. She'd made a decision and she was not going to go back on her words.

She knew she loved Harvey.

_But she would never stop loving Bruce more._

* * *

Slowly, as if she might break at the slightest touch, Bruce pulled back and touched her face. A tremor passed through his entire being as his fingers traced lightly over her scars, lingering over where the skin stretched smoothly. For an instant, his eyes lost their elation and became utterly bleak, devoid of any emotion as nightmarish memories resurfaced and threatened to burst forward.

Memories of his past, memories of _their _past.

Like a barren wasteland, stretching on endlessly, without an end in sight, he gazed into her eyes, feeling himself being slowly engulfed by their vibrant brown.

He was so tired.

Tired of running, of being chased, of being hunted down.

Every morning, it had become more and more difficult for him to drag himself to work pretending he was alright, to go on acting on that stage of reality where one slip of word, one unheeded action might unravel a lifelong play in an instant; while each night spiraled uncontrollably into skirmishes and hunts that lasted well into dawn. For nearly three months, he'd not slept soundly, woken up by nightmares, their laughter and screams echoing, no, _howling_ in his head.

_His_ laughter, _her_ screams.

And then, slowly but steadily, whether by conscious decision or forced circumstances, Bruce Wayne had diminished, disappearing somewhat in the aftermath of everything that had happened. The world had been stripped clear of its lies and pretensions for once by a madman. It did not notice his absence.

The Dark Knight had taken over, driving him to work even harder, play fairer as he strove to maintain the toehold of grip he'd managed to achieve, the leash he'd managed to loop around the head of Gotham's underworld. Even as their power weakened, the Batman grew. Not a man anymore,_ a myth_. Not a savior anymore, _a monster._

A legend.

A combination of fact and fabrication, a fable so powerful that he overshadowed even the Clown Prince of Gotham in the hearts of the people. He had become an idea, a belief in himself.

A symbol.

Much more than he'd set out to achieve. But as he'd gotten closer to his goal, Bruce had slowly begun realizing its flaws. The dream of a perfect Gotham seemed even further away than when he had started the path, even more precarious and unsteady then he'd imagined. Unattainable. _Impossible._

_He_ was unstoppable.

Bruce tightened his grip on Rachel's hand, afraid that she might disappear like everything else. That he might wake up into another nightmare to find that it had all been a wonderful dream.

No. He could _not_ stop.

Rachel looked at him, frowning, as if trying to figure out what he was thinking. Lifting her arm, she interlaced her fingers with his reassuringly, seeking out the warmth in his eyes.

'Hey.' She said softly, drawing him closer. Leaning forward, his breath hitching up, Bruce wanted to say something_, anything_ to make her understand how he was feeling. The guilt was like a raw wound, clawing at his gut, more painful than any flesh wound he had ever sustained.

_I'm sorry I let you for dead,_ he wanted to speak, _I'm sorry for everything–_

'It's all right.' She whispered.

_How did she know? _

'You did what needed to be done.' She said smiling, a little sadly. She couldn't say anything else. The pain was just too real, and time had yet not erased all the wounds.

But Bruce remained morose, his eyes piercing through hers, as if searching for something. Searching for what, she wondered. _Forgiveness?_ But she'd already forgiven him.

_Understanding?_ But she understood him. And understood the reason why he had done what he had done.

'I believe you.' She whispered after a moment, closing her eyes. There was it. She'd opened up those gates of emotion.

She couldn't see him like this, blaming himself, couldn't let him endure the pain he was inflicting upon himself alone.

No, not this time. He wasn't alone.

She couldn't be his. But she _could _be with him.

She kissed him softly.

* * *

Deep within the depths of the cave, a single drop of water fell from a stalagmite and down a large chasm.

For an entire minute, there was absolute silence and then a magnified splash echoed around the cave.

A gasp, a moan, a stirring of shadow at the bottom of the chasm. And then…

Silence.

The man who had been guarding the cave had moved noiselessly to the edge of the black void at the activity, but now he returned to his position, picking up his gnarled staff.

It wasn't the time.

Yet.

Sitting down, with his back to the entrance, he stared with infinite patience at the trickle of water, collecting on the tip of the stalagmite, waiting for it to become heavy enough to become the drop that would fall next.

* * *

It was as if everything he'd ever suffered for, everything he'd endured had been for this moment. The moment of pure bliss. They seemed to stay like that forever, neither one willing to come back to reality.

Finally they separated, a little out of their breaths.

Bending down again so that their foreheads touched, Bruce understood that in that instant, there was nothing that he wanted more, than to leave everything behind and stay like that forever, gazing into her eyes, holding her hand, just being with her.

'Rachel,' he whispered, his voice cracking, knowing that he was going to shatter everything between them forever, that from this moment onwards, because of what he would say, Rachel wouldn't be able to bear staying in the same room as him, wouldn't be able to see him without remembering everything that happened. That from this moment on, she would despise him with all heart.

Hate him.

'Harvey is dead. Because of me.'


End file.
